LIBRARY 


University  of  California. 


Class 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   YOUTH 

POEMS   FROM   'MODERN   LOVE1 

AND  SCATTERED  POEMS 


POEMS 

WRITTEN   IN   EARLY    YOUTH 

(published  in  1851) 

POEMS  FROM  'MODERN  LOVE' 

(first  edition) 

AND 

SCATTERED    POEMS 

BY 

GEORGE    MEREDITH 


* 


^  or  THE 
UNIVERSI1  > 

Of 

■ 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1909 


UlftL 


/* 


^5s 


CONTENTS 


POEMS   WRITTEN    IN  EARLY   YOUTH 

(Poems   1851): 
The  Olive  Branch          .... 

PAGE 

3 

Song        ....... 

9 

The  Wild  Rose  and  the  Snowdrop 

10 

The  Death  of  Winter  .... 

13 

Song 

15 

John  Lackland       ..... 

16 

The  Sleeping  City         .... 

17 

The  Poetry  of  Chaucer 

22 

The  Poetry  of  Spenser 

23 

The  Poetry  of  Shakespeare. 

23 

The  Poetry  of  Milton 

24 

The  Poetry  of  Southey 

24 

The  Poetry  of  Coleridge     . 

25 

The  Poetry  of  Shelley 

25 

The  Poetry  of  Wordsworth 

26 

The  Poetry  of  Keats  .... 

26 

Violets  ....... 

27 

Angelic  Love         ..... 

28 

Twilight  Music      ..... 

30 

Requiem           ...... 

32 

The  Flower  of  the  Ruins     . 

?4 

>|The  Rape  of  Aurora 

38 

CONTENTS 


South-West  Wind  in  the  W 

Will  o'  the  Wisp 

Song 

Song 

Song 

Daphne 

Song 

London  by  Lamplight 

Song 

Pastorals 

Song — Spring 

Song — Autumn 

Love  in  the  Valley 

Beauty  Rohtraut  . 

To  a  Skylark 

Sorrows  and  Joys 

Song 

Song 

Antigone 

Song 

The  Two   Blackbirds 

July 

Song 

Song 

The  Shipwreck  of  Idom 

The  Longest  Day 

To  Robin  Redbreast 

Song       .         .        . 

Sunrise  . 


CONTENTS 


Pictures  of  the  Rhine 
To  a  Nightingale 


Vll 

PAGK 

145 
149 


POEMS  FROM  'MODERN  LOVE' (First  Edition): 


Grandfather  Bridgeman 

153 

The  Meeting 

172 

The  Beggar's  Soliloquy 

173 

Cassandra       .... 

179 

The  Young  Usurper 

184 

Margaret's  Bridal-Eve 

185 

The  Head  of  Bran  the  Blest 

193 

By  Morning  Twilight  . 

197 

Autumn  Even-Song 

198 

Unknown  Fair  Faces     . 

199 

Phantasy        .... 

200 

Shemselnihar 

207 

A  Roar  through  the  Tall  Twin 

Elm- 

Trees 

210 

When  I  would  Image    . 

211 

I  Chafe  at  Darkness    . 

212 

By  the  Rosanna  :  to  F.  M.    . 

213 

Ode  to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn     . 

214 

The  Doe  :  A  Fragment 

223 

SCATTERED  POEMS: 

To  Alex.  Smith,  the  '  Glasgow  Poet 
Chillianwallah      .... 
Invitation  to  the  Country  . 
The  Sweet  o'  the  Year 


233 
234 
236 


CONTENTS 

The  Song  of  Courtesy 

The  Three  Maidens 

The  Crown  of  Love 

Lines  to  a  Friend  visiting  America 

On  the  Danger  of  War 

To  Cardinal  Manning  . 

To  Children  :  for  Tyrants  . 

A  Stave  of  Roving  Tim 

On  Hearing  the  News  from  Venici. 

The  Riddle  for  Men    . 


PAOK 

240 
243 
245 
247 
256 
257 
258 
262 
267 
268 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN 
EARLY   YOUTH 

POEMS  1851 


Of   THE 

UNIVERSITY 


POEMS    1851 

THE  OLIVE  BRANCH 

A  dove  flew  with  an  Olive  Branch  ; 
It  crossed  the  sea  and  reached  the  shore, 
And  on  a  ship  about  to  launch, 
Dropped  down  the  happy  sign  it  bore. 

*  An  omen  '  rang  the  glad  acclaim  ! 
The  Captain  stooped  and  picked  it  up, 
'  Be  then  the  Olive  Branch  her  name,' 
Cried  she  who  flung  the  christening  cup. 

The  vessel  took  the  laughing  tides  ; 
It  was  a  joyous  revelry 
To  see  her  dashing  from  her  sides 
The  rough,  salt  kisses  of  the  sea. 

And  forth  into  the  bursting  foam 
She  spread  her  sail  and  sped  away, 
The  rolling  surge  her  restless  home, 
Her  incense  wreaths  the  showering  spray. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Far  out,  and  where  the  riot  waves 
Run  mingling  in  tumultuous  throngs, 
She  danced  above  a  thousand  graves, 
And  heard  a  thousand  briny  songs. 

Her  mission  with  her  manly  crew, 
Her  flag  unfurl'd,  her  title  told, 
She  took  the  Old  World  to  the  New, 
And  brought  the  New  World  to  the  Old 

Secure  of  friendliest  welcomings, 
She  swam  the  havens  sheening  fair  ; 
Secure  upon  her  glad  white  wings, 
She  fluttered  on  the  ocean  air. 

To  her  no  more  the  bastioned  fort 
Shot  out  its  swarthy  tongue  of  fire  ; 
From  bay  to  bay,  from  port  to  port, 
Her  coming  was  the  world's  desire. 

And  tho'  the  tempest  lashed  her  oft, 
And  tho'  the  rocks  had  hungry  teeth, 
And  lightnings  split  the  masts  aloft, 
And  thunders  shook  the  planks  beneath, 

And  tho'  the  storm,  self-willed  and  blind, 
Made  tatters  of  her  dauntless  sail, 
And  all  the  wildness  of  the  wind 
Was  loosed  on  her,  she  did  not  fail ; 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH 

But  gallantly  she  ploughed  the  main, 
And  gloriously  her  welcome  pealed, 
And  grandly  shone  to  sky  and  plain 
The  goodly  bales  her  decks  revealed  ; 

Brought  from  the  fruitful  eastern  glebes, 
Where  blow  the  gusts  of  balm  and  spice, 
Or  where  the  black  blockaded  ribs 
Are  jammed  'mongst  ghostly  fleets  of  ice, 

Or  where  upon  the  curling  hills 
Grow  clusters  of  the  bright-eyed  grape, 
Or  where  the  hand  of  labour  drills 
The  stubbornness  of  earth  to  shape. 

Rich  harvestings  and  wealthy  germs, 
And  handicrafts  and  shapely  wares, 
And  spinnings  of  the  hermit  worms, 
And  fruits  that  bloom  by  lions'  lairs. 

Come,  read  the  meaning  of  the  deep  ! 
The  use  of  winds  and  waters  learn  ! 
'Tis  not  to  make  the  mother  weep 
For  sons  that  never  will  return  ; 

'Tis  not  to  make  the  nations  show 
Contempt  for  all  whom  seas  divide  ; 
'Tis  not  to  pamper  war  and  woe, 
Nor  feed  traditionary  pride  ; 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

'Tis  not  to  make  the  floating  bulk 
Mask  death  upon  its  slippery  deck, 
Itself  in  turn  a  shattered  hulk, 
A  ghastly  raft,  a  bleeding  wreck. 

It  is  to  knit  with  loving  lip 
The  interests  of  land  to  land  ; 
To  join  in  far-seen  fellowship 
The  tropic  and  the  polar  strand. 

It  is  to  make  that  foaming  Strength 
Whose  rebel  forces  wrestle  still 
Thro'  all  his  boundaried  breadth  and  length, 
Become  a  vassal  to  our  will. 

It  is  to  make  the  various  skies, 
And  all  the  various  fruits  they  vaunt, 
And  all  the  dowers  of  earth  we  prize, 
Subservient  to  our  household  want 

And  more,  for  knowledge  crowns  the  gain 
Of  intercourse  with  other  souls, 
And  Wisdom  travels  not  in  vain 
The  plunging  spaces  of  the  poles. 

The  wild  Atlantic's  weltering  gloom, 
Earth-clasping  seas  of  North  and  South, 
The  Baltic  with  its  amber  spume, 
The  Caspian  with  its  frozen  mouth  ; 


THE  OLIVE  BRANCH 

The  broad  Pacific,  basking  bright, 
And  girdling  lands  of  lustrous  growth, 
Vast  continents  and  isles  of  light, 
Dumb  tracts  of  undiscovered  sloth. 

She  visits  these,  traversing  each  ; 
They  ripen  to  the  common  sun  ; 
Thro'  diverse  forms  and  different  speech, 
The  world's  humanity  is  one. 

O  may  her  voice  have  power  to  say 
How  soon  the  wrecking  discords  cease, 
When  every  wandering  wave  is  gay 
With  golden  argosies  of  peace  ! 

Now  when  the  ark  of  human  fate, 
Long  baffled  by  the  wayward  wind, 
Is  drifting  with  its  peopled  freight, 
Safe  haven  on  the  heights  to  find  ; 

Safe  haven  from  the  drowning  slime 
Of  evil  deeds  and  Deluge  wrath  ; — 
To  plant  again  the  foot  of  Time 
Upon  a  purer,  firmer  path  ; 

'Tis  now  the  hour  to  probe  the  ground, 
To  watch  the  Heavens,  to  speak  the  word. 
The  fathoms  of  the  deep  to  sound, 
And  send  abroad  the  missioned  bird. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

On  strengthened  wing  for  evermore, 
Let  Science,  swiftly  as  she  can, 
Fly  seaward  on  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  bind  the  links  of  man  to  man  ; 

And  like  that  fair  propitious  Dove, 
Bless  future  fleets  about  to  launch  ; 
Make  every  freight  a  freight  of  love, 
And  every  ship  an  Olive  Branch. 


SONG 


SONG 


Love  within  the  lover's  breast 
Burns  like  Hesper  in  the  west, 
O'er  the  ashes  of  the  sun, 
Till  the  day  and  night  are  done  ; 
Then  when  dawn  drives  up  her  car — 
Lo  !  it  is  the  morning  star. 

Love  !  thy  love  pours  down  on  mine 

As  the  sunlight  on  the  vine, 

As  the  snow  rill  on  the  vale, 

As  the  salt  breeze  in  the  sail ; 

As  the  song  unto  the  bird, 

On  my  lips  thy  name  is  heard. 

As  a  dewdrop  on  the  rose 
In  thy  heart  my  passion  glows. 
As  a  skylark  to  the  sky, 
Up  into  thy  breast  I  fly ; 
As  a  sea-shell  of  the  sea 
Ever  shall  I  sing  of  thee. 


10  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  WILD  ROSE  AND  THE  SNOWDROP 

The  Snowdrop  is  the  prophet  of  the  flowers  ; 
It  lives  and  dies  upon  its  bed  of  snows  ; 
And  like  a  thought  of  spring  it  comes  and  goes, 
Hanging  its  head  beside  our  leafless  bowers. 
The  sun's  betrothing  kiss  it  never  knows, 
Nor  all  the  glowing  joy  of  golden  showers  ; 
But  ever  in  a  placid,  pure  repose, 
More  like  a  spirit  with  its  look  serene, 
Droops  its  pale  cheek  veined  thro'  with  infant 
green. 

Queen  of  her  sisters  is  the  sweet  Wild  Rose, 
Sprung  from  the  earnest  sun  and  ripe  young  June  ', 
The  year's  own  darling  and  the  Summer's  Queen  ! 
Lustrous  as  the  new-throned  crescent  moon. 
Much  of  that  early  prophet  look  she  shows, 
Mixed  with  her  fair  espoused  blush  which  glows, 
As  if  the  ethereal  fairy  blood  were  seen  ; 
Like  a  soft  evening  over  sunset  snows, 
Half  twilight  violet  shade,  half  crimson  sheen. 


*^    OF    THE  \ 

UNIVERSITY    J 


THE  WILD  ROSE  AND  THE  SNOWDROP     11 

Twin-born  are  both  in  beauteousness,  most  fair 
In  all  that  glads  the  eye  and  charms  the  air  ; 
In  all  that  wakes  emotions  in  the  mind 
And  sows  sweet  sympathies  for  human  kind. 
Twin-born,  albeit  their  seasons  are  apart, 
They  bloom  together  in  the  thoughtful  heart ; 
Fair  symbols  of  the  marvels  of  our  state, 
Mute  speakers  of  the  oracles  of  fate  ! 

For  each  fulfilling  nature's  law,  fulfils 

Itself  and  its  own  aspirations  pure  ; 

Living  and  dying  ;  letting  faith  ensure 

New  life  when  deathless  Spring  shall  touch  the  hills. 

Each  perfect  in  its  place  ;  and  each  content 

With  that  perfection  which  its  being  meant ; 

Divided  not  by  months  that  intervene, 

But  linked  by  all  the  flowers  that  bud  between. 

Forever  smiling  thro'  its  season  brief, 

The  one  in  glory  and  the  one  in  grief  : 

Forever  painting  to  our  museful  sight, 

How  lowlihead  and  loveliness  unite. 

Born  from  the  first  blind  yearning  of  the  earth 
To  be  a  mother  and  give  happy  birth, 
Ere  yet  the  northern  sun  such  rapture  brings, 
Lo,  from  her  virgin  breast  the  Snowdrop  springs  ; 
And  ere  the  snows  have  melted  from  the  grass, 
And  not  a  strip  of  greensward  doth  appear, 
Save  the  faint  prophecy  its  cheeks  declare, 


12  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Alone,  unkissed,  unloved,  behold  it  pass  ! 
While  in  the  ripe  enthronement  of  the  year, 
Whispering  the  breeze,  and  wedding  the  rich  air 
With  her  so  sweet,  delicious  bridal  breath, — 
Odorous  and  exquisite  beyond  compare, 
And  starr'd  with  dews  upon  her  forehead  clear, 
Fresh-hearted  as  a  Maiden  Queen  should  be 
Who  takes  the  land's  devotion  as  her  fee, — 
The  Wild  Rose  blooms,  all  summer  for  her  dower, 
Nature's  most  beautiful  and  perfect  flower. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WINTER      13 


THE  DEATH  OF  WINTER 

When  April  with  her  wild  blue  eye 
Comes  dancing  over  the  grass, 
And  all  the  crimson  birds  so  shy 

Peep  out  to  see  her  pass  ; 
As  lightly  she  loosens  her  showery  locks 
And  flutters  her  rainy  wings  ; 
Laughingly  stoops 

To  the  glass  of  the  stream, 
And  loosens  and  loops 

Her  hair  by  the  gleam, 
While  all  the  young  villagers  blithe  as  the  flocks 

Go  frolicking  round  in  rings  ; — 
Then  Winter,  he  who  tamed  the  fly, 
Turns  on  his  back  and  prepares  to  die, 
For  he  cannot  live  longer  under  the  sky. 

Down  the  valleys  glittering  green, 
Down  from  the  hills  in  snowy  rills, 
He  melts  between  the  border  sheen 
And  leaps  the  flowery  verges  ! 


14  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

He  cannot  choose,  but  brighten  their  hues, 
And  tho'  he  would  creep,  he  fain  must  leap, 

For  the  quick  Spring  spirit  urges. 
Down  the  vale  and  down  the  dale, 
He  leaps  and  lights,  till  his  moments  fail, 
Buried  in  blossoms,  red  and  pale, 

While  the  sweet  birds  sing  his  dirges  ! 

O  Winter  !  I  'd  live  that  life  of  thine, 
With  a  frosty  brow  and  an  icicle  tongue, 
And  never  a  song  my  whole  life  long, — 
Were  such  delicious  burial  mine  ! 
To  die  and  be  buried,  and  so  remain 
A  wandering  brook  in  April's  train, 
Fixing  my  dying  eyes  for  aye 
On  the  dawning  brows  of  maiden  May„ 


SONG  15 


SONG 

The  moon  is  alone  in  the  sky 

As  thou  in  my  soul  ; 
The  sea  takes  her  image  to  lie 
Where  the  white  ripples  roll 
All  night  in  a  dream, 
With  the  light  of  her  beam, 
Hushedly,  mournfully,  mistily  up  to  the  shore 
The  pebbles  speak  low 
In  the  ebb  and  the  flow, 
As  I  when  thy  voice  came  at  intervals,  tuned  to 
adore  : 

Nought  other  stirred 
Save  my  heart  all  unheard 
Beating  to  bliss  that  is  past  evermore. 


16  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


JOHN  LACKLAND 

A  wicked  man  is  bad  enough  on  earth  ; 
But  O  the  baleful  lustre  of  a  chief 
Once  pledged  in  tyranny  !     O  star  of  dearth 
Darkly  illumining  a  nation's  grief  ! 
How  many  men  have  worn  thee  on  their  brows  ! 
Alas  for  them  and  us  !     God's  precious  gift 
Of  gracious  dispensation  got  by  theft — 
The  damning  form  of  false  unholy  vows  ! 
The  thief  of  God  and  man  must  have  his  fee  : 
And  thou  John  Lackland,  despicable  prince — 
Basest  of  England's  banes  before  or  since  ! 
Thrice  traitor,  coward,  thief  !     O  thou  shalt  be 
The  historic  warning,  trampled  and  abhorr'd 
Who  dared  to  steal  and  stain  the  symbols  of  the 
Lord! 


THE  SLEEPING  CITY  17 


THE  SLEEPING  CITY 

A  princess  in  the  eastern  tale, 
Paced  thro'  a  marble  city  pale, 
And  saw  on  ghastly  shapes  of  stone, 
The  sculptured  life  she  breathed  alone  ; 

Saw,  where'er  her  eye  might  range, 
Herself  the  only  child  of  change ; 
And  heard  her  echoed  footfall  chime 
Between  Oblivion  and  Time  ; 

And  in  the  squares  where  fountains  played, 
And  up  the  spiral  balustrade, 
Along  the  drowsy  corridors, 
Even  to  the  inmost  sleeping  floors, 

Surveyed  in  wonder  chilled  with  dread, 
The  seemingness  of  Death,  not  dead  ; 
Life's  semblance  but  without  its  storm, 
And  silence  frosting  every  form  ; 


18  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Crowned  figures,  cold  and  grouping  slaves, 
Like  suddenly  arrested  waves 
About  to  sink,  about  to  rise, — 
Strange  meaning  in  their  stricken  eyes. 

And  cloths  and  couches  live  with  flame 
Of  leopards  fierce  and  lions  tame, 
And  hunters  in  the  jungle  reed, 
Thrown  out  by  sombre  glowing  brede  ; 

Dumb  chambers  hushed  with  fold  on  fold, 
And  cumbrous  gorgeousness  of  gold  ; 
White  casements  o'er  embroidered  seats, 
Looking  on  solitudes  of  streets, — 

On  palaces  and  column'd  towers, 
Unconscious  of  the  stony  hours  ; 
Harsh  gateways  startled  at  a  sound, 
With  burning  lamps  all  burnish'd  round  ; — 

Surveyed  in  awe  this  wealth  and  state, 
Touched  by  the  finger  of  a  Fate, 
And  drew  with  slow-awakening  fear, 
The  sternness  of  the  atmosphere  ; — 

And  gradually  with  stealthier  foot, 
Became  herself  a  thing  as  mute, 
And  listened, — while  with  swift  alarm 
Her  alien  heart  shrank  from  the  charm  : 


THE  SLEEPING  CITY  19 

Yet  as  her  thoughts  dilating  rose, 
Took  glory  in  the  great  repose, 
And  over  every  postured  form 
Spread  lava-like  and  brooded  warm, — 

And  fixed  on  every  frozen  face, 

Beheld  the  record  of  its  race, 

And  in  each  chiselled  feature  knew 

The  stormy  life  that  once  blushed  thro' ; — 

The  ever-present  of  the  past 
There  written  ;  all  that  lightened  last, 
Love,  anguish,  hope,  disease,  despair, 
Beauty  and  rage,  all  written  there  ; — 

Enchanted  Passions  !  whose  pale  doom 
Is  never  flushed  by  blight  or  bloom, 
But  sentinelled  by  silent  orbs, 
Whose  light  the  pallid  scene  absorbs. — 

Like  such  a  one  I  pace  along 
This  City  with  its  sleeping  throng  ; 
Like  her  with  dread  and  awe,  that  turns 
To  rapture,  and  sublimely  yearns  ; — 

For  now  the  quiet  stars  look  down 

On  lights  as  quiet  as  their  own  ; 

The  streets  that  groaned  with  traffic,  show 

As  if  with  silence  paved  below  ; 


20  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

The  latest  revellers  are  at  peace, 
The  signs  of  in-door  tumult  cease, 
From  gay  saloon  and  low  resort, 
Comes  not  one  murmur  or  report : 

The  clattering  chariot  rolls  not  by, 
The  windows  show  no  waking  eye, 
The  houses  smoke  not,  and  the  air 
Is  clear,  and  all  the  midnight  fair. 

The  centre  of  the  striving  world, 
Round  which  the  human  fate  is  curled, 
To  which  the  future  crieth  wild, — 
Is  pillowed  like  a  cradled  child. 

The  palace  roof  that  guards  a  crown, 
The  mansion  swathed  in  dreamy  down, 
Hovel,  court,  and  alley-shed, 
Sleep  in  the  calmness  of  the  dead. 

Now  while  the  many-motived  heart 
Lies  hushed— fireside  and  busy  mart, 
And  mortal  pulses  beat  the  tune, 
That  charms  the  calm  cold  ear  o'  the  moon 

Whose  yellowing  crescent  down  the  West 
Leans  listening,  now  when  every  breast 
Its  basest  or  its  purest  heaves, 
The  soul  that  joys,  the  soul  that  grieves  ; — 


THE  SLEEPING  CITY  21 

While  Fame  is  crowning  happy  brows 
That  day  will  blindly  scorn,  while  vows 
Of  anguished  love  long  hidden,  speak 
From  faltering  tongue  and  flushing  cheek  ; 

The  language  only  known  to  dreams, 
Rich  eloquence  of  rosy  themes  ! 
While  on  the  Beauty's  folded  mouth, 
Disdain  just  wrinkles  baby  youth  ; 

While  Poverty  dispenses  alms 
To  outcasts,  bread,  and  healing  balms  ; 
While  old  Mammon  knows  himself 
The  greatest  beggar  for  his  pelf  ; 

While  noble  things  in  darkness  grope, 
The  Statesman's  aim,  the  Poet's  hope  ; 
The  Patriot's  impulse  gathers  fire, 
And  germs  of  future  fruits  aspire  ; — 

Now  while  dumb  nature  owns  its  links, 
And  from  one  common  fountain  drinks, 
Methinks  in  all  around  I  see 
This  Picture  in  Eternity  ; — 

A  marbled  City  planted  there 
With  all  its  pageants  and  despair ; 
A  peopled  hush,  a  Death  not  dead, 
But  stricken  with  Medusa's  head  ; — 


22  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  in  the  Gorgon's  glance  for  aye 
The  lifeless  immortality 
Reveals  in  sculptured  calmness  all 
Its  latest  life  beyond  recall. 


THE  POETRY  OF  CHAUCER 

Grey   with   all   honours   of  age !    but  fresh- 
featured  and  ruddy 

As    dawn    when    the    drowsy  farm-yard    has 
thrice  heard  Chaunticlere. 

Tender  to  tearfulness — childlike,  and  manly, 
and  motherly  ; 
Here  beats  true  English  blood  richest  joyance  on 
sweet  English  ground. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SHAKESPEARE      23 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPENSER 

Lakes  where  the   sunsheen    is   mystic  with 

splendour  and  softness  ; 
Vales  where  sweet  life   is  all   Summer  with 

golden  romance  ; 
Forests   that    glimmer    with    twilight   round 

revel-bright  palaces  ; 
Here    in    our    May-blood    we   wander,    careering 

'mongst  ladies  and  knights. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

Picture   some   Isle   smiling   green  'mid   the 
white-foaming  ocean  ; — 

Full  of  old  woods,  leafy  wisdoms,  and  frolic- 
some fays  ; 

Passions   and   pageants ;  sweet   love   singing 
bird-like  above  it  ; 
Life  in  all  shapes,  aims,  and  fates,  is  there  warm'd 
by  one  great  human  heart. 


24  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  POETRY  OF  MILTON 

Like  to  some  deep-chested  organ  whose  grand 

inspiration, 
Serenely  majestic  in  utterance,  lofty  and  calm, 
Interprets  to  mortals  with  melody  great  as  its 
burthen, 
The  mystical  harmonies  chiming  for  ever  through- 
out the  bright  spheres. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SOUTHEY 

Keen  as  an  eagle  whose  flight  towards  the 
dim  empyrean 

Fearless  of  toil  or  fatigue  ever  royally  wends  ! 

Vast  in  the  cloud-coloured  robes  of  the  balm- 
breathing  Orient 
Lo  I    the    grand    Epic    advances,  unfolding    the 
humanest  truth. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SHELLEY     25 


THE  POETRY  OF  COLERIDGE 

A  brook  glancing  under  green  leaves,   self- 
delighting,  exulting, 
And  full  of  a  gurgling  melody  ever  renewed — 
Renewed  thro'  all  changes  of  Heaven,  unceas 
ing  in  sunlight, 
Unceasing  in  moonlight,  but  hushed  in  the  beams 
of  the  holier  orb. 


THE  POETRY  OF  SHELLEY 

See'st  thou  a  Skylark  whose  glistening  wing- 
lets  ascending 

Quiver    like   pulses    beneath    the    melodious 
dawn  ? 

Deep  in  the  heart-yearning  distance  of  heaven 
it  flutters — 
Wisdom  and  beauty  and  love  are  the  treasures  it 
brings  down  at  eve. 


26  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  POETRY  OF  WORDSWORTH 

A  breath  of  the  mountains,  fresh  born  in  the 

regions  majestic, 
That  look  with  their  eye-daring  summits  deep 

into  the  sky. 
The  voice  of  great  Nature  ;  sublime  with  her 

lofty  conceptions, 
Vet  earnest  and  simple  as  any  sweet  child  of  the 

green  lowly  vale. 


THE  POETRY  OF  KEATS 

The  song  of  a  nightingale  sent  thro'  a  slum- 
brous valley, 

Low-lidded  with  twilight,   and  tranced  with 
the  dolorous  sound, 

Tranced    with    a   tender   enchantment ;    the 
yearning  of  passion 
That  wins   immortality  even  while  panting  de- 
lirious with  death. 


VIOLETS  27 


VIOLETS 

Violets,  shy  violets  ! 

How  many  hearts  with  you  compare  ! 

Who  hide  themselves  in  thickest  green, 
And  thence  unseen, 
Ravish  the  enraptured  air 
With  sweetness,  dewy  fresh  and  rare  ! 

Violets,  shy  violets  ! 

Human  hearts  to  me  shall  be 
Viewless  violets  in  the  grass, 
And  as  I  pass, 
Odours  and  sweet  imagery 
Will  wait  on  mine  and  gladden  me  ! 


28  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


ANGELIC  LOVE 

Angelic  love  that  stoops  with  heavenly  lips 

To  meet  its  earthly  mate  ; 
Heroic  love  that  to  its  sphere's  eclipse, 

Can  dare  to  join  its  fate 
With  one  beloved  devoted  human  heart, 
And  share  with  it  the  passion  and  the  smart, 
The  undying  bliss 
Of  its  most  fleeting  kiss  ; 
The  fading  grace 
Of  its  most  sweet  embrace  : — 

Angelic  love,  heroic  love  ! 

Whose  birth  can  only  be  above, 

Whose  wandering  must  be  on  earth, 

Whose  haven  where  it  first  had  birth  ! 
Love  that  can  part  with  all  but  its  own  worth, 

And  joy  in  every  sacrifice 

That  beautifies  its  Paradise  ! 
And  gently  like  a  golden-fruited  vine, 
With  earnest  tenderness  itself  consign, 
And  creeping  up  deliriously  entwine 


ANGELIC  LOVE  2 

Its  dear  delicious  arms 

Round  the  beloved  being  ! 

With  fair  unfolded  charms, 

All-trusting,  and  all-seeing, — 
Grape-laden  with  full  bunches  of  young  wine  ! 
While  to  the  panting  heart's  dry  yearning  droutl 
Buds  the  rich  dewy  mouth — 

Tenderly  uplifted, 

Like  two  rose-leaves  drifted 
Down  in  a  long  warm  sigh  of  the  sweet  South  ! 

Such  love,  such  love  is  thine, 

Such  heart  is  mine 
O  thou  of  mortal  visions  most  divine  1 


30  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


TWILIGHT  MUSIC 

Know  you  the  low  pervading  breeze 

That  softly  sings 
In  the  trembling  leaves  of  twilight  trees. 
As  if  the  wind  were  dreaming  on  its  wings  ? 
And  have  you  marked  their  still  degrees 
Of  ebbing  melody,  like  the  strings 
Of  a  silver  harp  swept  by  a  spirit's  hand 
In  some  strange  glimmering  land, 
'Mid  gushing  springs, 
And  glistenings 
Of  waters  and  of  planets,  wild  and  grand  1 
And  have  you  marked  in  that  still  time, 
The  chariots  of  those  shining  cars 
Brighten  upon  the  hushing  dark, 
And  bent  to  hark 
That  Voice,  amid  the  poplar  and  the  lime, 
Pause  in  the  dilating  lustre 

Of  the  spheral  cluster  ; 
Pause  but  to  renew  its  sweetness,  deep 
As  dreams  of  heaven  to  souls  that  sleep  I 


TWILIGHT  MUSIC  31 

And  felt,  despite  earth's  jarring  wars, 

When  day  is  done 

And  dead  the  sun, 
Still  a  voice  divine  can  sing, 
Still  is  there  sympathy  can  bring 

A  whisper  from  the  stars  ! 
Ah,  with  this  sentience  quickly  will  you  know, 
How  like  a  tree  I  tremble  to  the  tones 

Of  your  sweet  voice  ! 

How  keenly  I  rejoice 
When  in  me  with  sweet  motions  slow 
The  spiritual  music  ebbs  and  moans — 
Lives  in  the  lustre  of  those  heavenly  eyes, 
Dies  in  the  light  of  its  own  paradise, — 
Dies,  and  relives  eternal  from  its  death. 
Immortal  melodies  in  each  deep  breath  ; 
Sweeps  thro'  my  being,  bearing  up  to  thee 
Myself,  the  weight  of  its  eternity  ; 
Till  nerved  to  life  from  its  ordeal  fire, 
It  marries  music  with  the  human  lyre, 
Blending  divine  delight  with  loveliest  desire. 


32  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


REQUIEM 

Where  faces  are  hueless,  where  eyelids  are  dew- 
less, 
Where    passion    is    silent    and   hearts    never 
crave  ; 
Where  thought  hath  no  theme,  and  where  sleep 
hath  no  dream, 
In  patience  and  peace  thou  art  gone — to  thy 
grave  ! 
Gone  where  no  warning  can  wake  thee  to  morn- 
ing, 
Dead  tho'  a  thousand  hands  stretch'd  out  to 


Thou  cam'st  to  us  sighing,  and  singing  and  dying, 
How  could  it  be  otherwise,  fair  as  thou  wert  ? 

Placidly  fading,  and  sinking  and  shading, 

At  last  to  that  shadow,  the  latest  desert ; 

Wasting  and  waning,  but  still,  still  remaining, 

Alas  for  the  hand  that  could  deal  the  death- 
hurt ! 


REQUIEM  33 

The  Summer  that  brightens,  the  Winter  that 
whitens, 

The  world  and  its  voices,  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
The  bloom  of  creation,  the  tie  of  relation, 

All — all  is  a  blank  to  thine  ear  and  thine  eye  ; 
The  ear  may  not  listen,  the  eye  may  not  glisten, 

Nevermore  waked  by  a  smile  or  a  sigh. 

The  tree  that  is  rootless  must  ever  be  fruitless  ; 
And  thou  art  alone  in  thy  death  and  thy 
birth  ; 
No  last  loving  token  of  wedded  love  broken, 

No    sign    of    thy    singleness,    sweetness    and 
worth  ; 
Lost  as  the  flower  that  is  drowned  in  the  shower, 
Fall'n  like  a  snowflake  to  melt  in  the  earth. 


34  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  RUINS 

Take  thy  lute  and  sing 
By  the  ruined  castle  walls, 
Where  the  torrent- foam  falls, 
And  long  weeds  wave  : 

Take  thy  lute  and  sing, 
O'er  the  grey  ancestral  grave  ! 

Daughter  of  a  King, 
Tune  thy  string. 

Sing  of  happy  hours, 
In  the  roar  of  rushing  time  ; 
Till  all  the  echoes  chime 
To  the  days  gone  by  ; 

Sing  of  passing  hours 
To  the  ever-present  sky  ; — 

Weep — and  let  the  showers 
Wake  thy  flowers. 

Sing  of  glories  gone  : — 
No  more  the  blazoned  fold 
From  the  banner  is  unrolled  ; 
The  gold  sun  is  set. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  RUINS         35 

Sing  his  glory  gone, 
For  thy  voice  may  charm  him  yet ; 
Daughter  of  the  dawn, 
He  is  gone  1 


Pour  forth  all  thy  grief  ! 
Passionately  sweep  the  chords, 
Wed  them  quivering  to  thy  words  ; 
Wild  words  of  wail  ! 

Shed  thy  withered  grief — 
But  hold  not  Autumn  to  thy  bale ; 

The  eddy  of  the  leaf 
Must  be  brief  ! 

Sing  up  to  the  night : 
Hard  it  is  for  streaming  tears 
To  read  the  calmness  of  the  spheres, 
Coldly  they  shine  ; 

Sing  up  to  their  light ; 
They  have  views  thou  may'st  divine — 

Gain  prophetic  sight 
From  their  light  I 

On  the  windy  hills 
Lo,  the  little  harebell  leans 
On  the  spire-grass  that  it  queens, 
With  bonnet  blue ; 


36  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Trusting  love  instils 
Love  and  subject  reverence  true, 
Learn  what  love  instils 
On  the  hills  ! 


By  the  bare  wayside 
Placid  snowdrops  hang  their  cheeks, 
Softly  touch'd  with  pale  green  streaks. 
Soon,  soon,  to  die  ; 

On  the  clothed  hedgeside 
Bands  of  rosy  beauties  vie, 

In  their  prophecied 
Summer  pride. 

From  the  snowdrop  learn  ; 
Not  in  her  pale  life  lives  she, 
But  in  her  blushing  prophecy. 
Thus  be  thy  hopes, 

Living  but  to  yearn 
Upwards  to  the  hidden  copes  ; — 

Even  within  the  urn 
Let  them  burn  ! 

Heroes  of  thy  race — 
Warriors  with  golden  crowns, 
Ghostly  shapes  with  marbled  frowns 
Stare  thee  to  stone  : 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  RUINS         37 

Matrons  of  thy  race 
Pass  before  thee  making  moan  ; 
Full  of  solemn  grace 
Is  their  pace. 

Piteous  their  despair ! 
Piteous  their  looks  forlorn  ! 
Terrible  their  ghostly  scorn  ! 
Still  hold  thou  fast ; — 

Heed  not  their  despair  ! — 
Thou  art  thy  future,  not  thy  past ; 

Let  them  glance  and  glare 
Thro'  the  air. 

Thou  the  ruin's  bud, 
Be  not  that  moist  rich-smelling  weed 
With  its  arras-sembled  brede, 
And  ruin-haunting  stalk  ; 

Thou  the  ruin's  bud, 
Be  still  the  rose  that  lights  the  walk, 

Mix  thy  fragrant  blood 
With  the  flood  1 


38  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  RAPE  OF  AURORA 

Never,  O  never, 

Since  dewy  sweet  Flora, 
Was  ravished  by  Zephyr, 

Was  such  a  thing  heard 

In  the  valleys  so  hollow  ! 

Till  rosy  Aurora, 
Uprising  as  ever, 

Bright  Phosphor  to  follow, 
Pale  Phoebe  to  sever, 

Was  caught  like  a  bird 

To  the  breast  of  Apollo  ! 

Wildly  she  flutters, 

And  flushes  all  over 
With  passionate  mutters 

Of  shame  to  the  hush 

Of  his  amorous  whispers  : 

But,  O  such  a  lover 
Must  win  when  he  utters 

Thro'  rosy  red  lispers, 


THE  RAPE  OF  AURORA  39 

The  pains  that  discover 
The  wishes  that  gush 

From  the  torches  of  Hesperus. 

One  finger  just  touching 

The  Orient  chamber, 
Unflooded  the  gushing 

Of  light  that  illumed 

All  her  lustrous  unveiling. 

On  clouds  of  glow  amber, 
Her  limbs  richly  blushing, 

She  lay  sweetly  wailing, 
In  odours  that  gloomed 

On  the  God  as  he  bloomed 

O'er  her  loveliness  paling. 

Great  Pan  in  his  covert 

Beheld  the  rare  glistening, 
The  cry  of  the  love-hurt, 

The  sigh  and  the  kiss 

Of  the  latest  close  mingling  : 

But  love,  thought  he,  listening, 
Will  not  do  a  dove  hurt 

I  know, — and  a  tingling, 
Latent  with  bliss, 

Prickt  thro'  him,  I  wis, 

For  the  Nymph  he  was  singling. 


40  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SOUTH-WEST  WIND  IN  THE  WOODLAND 

The  silence  of  preluded  song — 

iEolian  silence  charms  the  woods  ; 

Each  tree  a  harp,  whose  foliaged  strings 

Are  waiting  for  the  master's  touch 

To  sweep  them  into  storms  of  joy, 

Stands  mute  and  whispers  not ;  the  birds 

Brood  dumb  in  their  foreboding  nests, 

Save  here  and  there  a  chirp  or  tweet, 

That  utters  fear  or  anxious  love, 

Or  when  the  ouzel  sends  a  swift 

Half  warble,  shrinking  back  again 

His  golden  bill,  or  when  aloud 

The  storm-cock  warns  the  dusking  hills 

And  villages  and  valleys  round  : 

For  lo,  beneath  those  ragged  clouds 

That  skirt  the  opening  west,  a  stream 

Of  yellow  light  and  windy  flame 

Spreads  lengthening  southward,  and  the  sky 

Begins  to  gloom,  and  o'er  the  ground 

A  moan  of  coming  blasts  creeps  low 

And  rustles  in  the  crisping  grass  ; 


SOUTH-WEST  WIND  IN  THE  WOODLAND    41 

Till  suddenly  with  mighty  arms 

Outspread,  that  reach  the  horizon  round, 

The  great  South-West  drives  o'er  the  earth, 

And  loosens  all  his  roaring  robes 

Behind  him,  over  heath  and  moor. 

He  comes  upon  the  neck  of  night, 

Like  one  that  leaps  a  fiery  steed 

Whose  keen  black  haunches  quivering  shine 

With  eagerness  and  haste,  that  needs 

No  spur  to  make  the  dark  leagues  fly  1 

Whose  eyes  are  meteors  of  speed  ; 

Whose  mane  is  as  a  flashing  foam  ; 

Whose  hoofs  are  travelling  thunder- shocks  ; — 

He  comes,  and  while  his  growing  gusts, 

Wild  couriers  of  his  reckless  course 

Are  whistling  from  the  daggered  gorse, 

And  hurrying  over  fern  and  broom, 

Midway,  far  off,  he  feigns  to  halt 

And  gather  in  his  streaming  train. 

Now,  whirring  like  an  eagle's  wing 
Preparing  for  a  wide  blue  flight ; 
Now,  flapping  like  a  sail  that  tacks 
And  chides  the  wet  bewildered  mast  ; 
Now,  screaming  like  an  anguish'd  thing 
Chased  close  by  some  down-breathing  beak  ; 
Now,  wailing  like  a  breaking  heart, 
That  will  not  wholly  break,  but  hopes 


42  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

With  hope  that  knows  itself  in  vain  ; 

Now,  threatening  like  a  storm-charged  cloud 

Now,  cooing  like  a  woodland  dove  ; 

Now,  up  again  in  roar  and  wrath 

High  soaring  and  wide  sweeping  ;  now 

With  sudden  fury  dashing  down 

Full-force  on  the  awaiting  woods. 

Long  waited  there,  for  aspens  frail 

That  tinkle  with  a  silver  bell, 

To  warn  the  Zephyr  of  their  love, 

When  danger  is  at  hand,  and  wake 

The  neighbouring  boughs,  surrendering  all 

Their  prophet  harmony  of  leaves, 

Had  caught  his  earliest  windward  thought, 

And  told  it  trembling  ;  naked  birk 

Down  showering  her  dishevelled  hair, 

And  like  a  beauty  yielding  up 

Her  fate  to  all  the  elements, 

Had  swayed  in  answer  ;  hazels  close, 

Thick  brambles  and  dark  brushwood  tufts, 

And  briared  brakes  that  line  the  dells 

With  shaggy  beetling  brows,  had  sung 

Shrill  music,  while  the  tattered  flaws 

Tore  over  them,  and  now  the  whole 

Tumultuous  concords,  seized  at  once 

With  savage  inspiration, — pine, 

And  larch,  and  beech,  and  fir,  and  thorn, 


SOUTH-WEST  WIND  IN  THE  WOODLAND   43 

And  ash,  and  oak,  and  oakling,  rave 

And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  whirl,  and  toss, 

And  stretch  their  arms,  and  split,  and  crack, 

And  bend  their  stems,  and  bow  their  heads, 

And  grind,  and  groan,  and  lion-like 

Roar  to  the  echo-peopled  hills 

And  ravenous  wilds,  and  crake-like  cry 

With  harsh  delight,  and  cave-like  call 

With  hollow  mouth,  and  harp-like  thrill 

With  mighty  melodies,  sublime, 

From  clumps  of  column'd  pines  that  wave 

A  lofty  anthem  to  the  sky, 

Fit  music  for  a  prophet's  soul — 

And  like  an  ocean  gathering  power, 

And  murmuring  deep,  while  down  below, 

Reigns  calm  profound  ; — not  trembling  now 

The  aspens,  but  like  freshening  waves 

That  fall  upon  a  shingly  beach  ; — 

And  round  the  oak  a  solemn  roll 

Of  organ  harmony  ascends, 

And  in  the  upper  foliage  sounds 

A  symphony  of  distant  seas. 

The  voice  of  nature  is  abroad 

This  night ;  she  fills  the  air  with  balm  ; 

Her  mystery  is  o'er  the  land  ; 

And  who  that  hears  her  now  and  yields 

His  being  to  her  yearning  tones, 


44  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  seats  his  soul  upon  her  wings, 
And  broadens  o'er  the  wind-swept  world 
With  her,  will  gather  in  the  flight 
More  knowledge  of  her  secret,  more 
Delight  in  her  beneficence, 
Than  hours  of  musing,  or  the  lore 
That  lives  with  men  could  ever  give  ! 

Nor  will  it  pass  away  when  morn 
Shall  look  upon  the  lulling  leaves, 
And  woodland  sunshine,  Eden-sweet, 
Dreams  o'er  the  paths  of  peaceful  shade  ;- 
For  every  elemental  power 
Is  kindred  to  our  hearts,  and  once 
Acknowledged,  wedded,  once  embraced, 
Once  taken  to  the  unfettered  sense, 
Once  claspt  into  the  naked  life, 
The  union  is  eternal. 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP  45 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

Follow  me,  follow  me, 
Over  brake  and  under  tree, 
Thro'  the  bosky  tanglery, 

Brushwood  and  bramble ! 

Follow  me,  follow  me, 

Laugh  and  leap  and  scramble  ! 

Follow,  follow, 

Hill  and  hollow, 

Fosse  and  burrow, 

Fen  and  furrow, 
Down  into  the  bulrush  beds, 
'Midst  the  reeds  and  osier  heads, 
In  the  rushy  soaking  damps, 
Where  the  vapours  pitch  their  camps, 

Follow  me,  follow  me, 

For  a  midnight  ramble  I 
O  !  what  a  mighty  fog, 
What  a  merry  night  O  ho  ! 
Follow,  follow,  nigher,  nigher — 
Over  bank,  and  pond,  and  briar, 
Down  into  the  croaking  ditches, 


46  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Rotten  log, 

Spotted  frog, 

Beetle  bright 

With  crawling  light, 
What  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Deep  into  the  purple  bog — 
What  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Where  like  hosts  of  puckered  witches, 
All  the  shivering  agues  sit 
Warming  hands  and  chafing  feet, 
By  the  blue  marsh-hovering  oils  : 
O  the  fools  for  all  their  moans  ! 
Not  a  forest  mad  with  fire 
Could  still  their  teeth,  or  warm  their  bones, 
Or  loose  them  from  their  chilly  coils. 

What  a  clatter, 

How  they  chatter  ! 

Shrink  and  huddle, 

All  a  muddle, 

WTiat  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Down  we  go,  down  we  go, 

What  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Soon  shall  I  be  down  below, 
Plunging  with  a  grey  fat  friar, 
Hither,  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Breathing  mists  and  whisking  lamps, 
Plashing  in  the  shiny  swamps  ; 
While  my  cousin  Lantern  Jack, 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP  47 

With  cock  ears  and  cunning  eyes, 
Turns  him  round  upon  his  back, 
Daubs  him  oozy  green  and  black, 
Sits  upon  his  rolling  size, 
Where  he  lies,  where  he  lies, 
Groaning  full  of  sack — 
Staring  with  his  great  round  eyes  ! 

What  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Sits  upon  him  in  the  swamps 
Breathing  mists  and  whisking  lamps  ! 

What  a  joy  O  ho  1 
Such  a  lad  is  Lantern  Jack, 
When  he  rides  the  black  nightmare 
Through  the  fens,  and  puts  a  glare 
In  the  friar's  track. 
Such  a  frolic  lad,  good  lack  ! 
To  turn  a  friar  on  his  back, 
Trip  him,  clip  him,  whip  him,  nip  him. 
Lay  him  sprawling,  smack  ! 
Such  a  lad  is  Lantern  Jack  ! 
Such  a  tricksy  lad,  good  lack  1 

What  a  joy  O  ho  ! 
Follow  me,  follow  me, 
Where  he  sits,  and  you  shall  see  ! 


„        or  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


48  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Fair  and  false  !     No  dawn  will  greet 

Thy  waking  beauty  as  of  old  ; 
The  little  flower  beneath  thy  feet 

Is  alien  to  thy  smile  so  cold  ; 
The  merry  bird  flown  up  to  meet 
Young  morning  from  his  nest  i'  the  wheat, 

Scatters  his  joy  to  wood  and  wold, 

But  scorns  the  arrogance  of  gold. 

False  and  fair  !     I  scarce  know  why, 

But  standing  in  the  lonely  air, 
And  underneath  the  blessed  sky, 

I  plead  for  thee  in  my  despair  ; — 
For  thee  cut  off,  both  heart  and  eye 
From  living  truth  ;  thy  spring  quite  dry  ; 

For  thee,  that  heaven  my  thought  may  share, 

Forget — how  false  !  and  think — how  fair  ! 


SONG  49 


SONG 


Two  wedded  lovers  watched  the  rising  moon, 

That    with    her    strange    mysterious    beauty 

glowing, 
Over  misty  hills  and  waters  flowing, 

Crowned  the  long  twilight  loveliness  of  June : 

And  thus  in  me,  and  thus  in  me,  they  spake, 
The  solemn  secret  of  first  love  did  wake. 

Above  the  hills  the  blushing  orb  arose  ; 

Her  shape  encircled  by  a  radiant  bower, 

In  which  the  nightingale  with  charmed  power, 

Poured  forth  enchantment  o'er  the  dark  repose  : 
And  thus  in  me,  and  thus  in  me  they  said, 
Earth's  mists  did  with  the  sweet  new  spirit 
wed. 

Far  up  the  sky  with  ever  purer  beam, 

Upon  the  throne  of  night  the  moon  was  seated, 
And  down  the  valley  glens  the  shades  re- 
treated, 

And  silver  light  was  on  the  open  stream. 

And  thus  in  me,  and  thus  in  me,  they  sighed, 
Aspiring  Love  has  hallowed  Passion's  tide. 


50  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

I  cannot  lose  thee  for  a  day, 

But  like  a  bird  with  restless  wing, 
My  heart  will  find  thee  far  away, 
And  on  thy  bosom  fall  and  sing, 

My  nest  is  here,  my  rest  is  here  ; — 
And  in  the  lull  of  wind  and  rain, 
Fresh  voices  make  a  sweet  refrain, 

'  His  rest  is  there,  his  nest  is  there.' 
With  thee  the  wind  and  sky  are  fair, 

But  parted,  both  are  strange  and  dark  ; 
And  treacherous  the  quiet  air 

That  holds  me  singing  like  a  lark, 

O  shield  my  love,  strong  arm  above  ! 
Till  in  the  hush  of  wind  and  rain, 
Fresh  voices  make  a  rich  refrain, 

'  The  arm  above,  will  shield  thy  love. 


DAPHNE  51 


DAPHNE 

Musing  on  the  fate  of  Daphne, 
Many  feelings  urged  my  breast, 
For  the  God  so  keen  desiring, 
And  the  Nymph  so  deep  distrest. 

Never  flashed  thro'  sylvan  valley, 
Visions  so  divinely  fair  ! 
He  with  early  ardour  glowing, 
She  with  rosy  anguish  rare. 

Only  still  more  sweet  and  lovely 
For  those  terrors  on  her  brows, 
Those  swift  glances  wild  and  brilliant, 
Those  delicious  panting  vows. 

Timidly  the  timid  shoulders 
Shrinking  from  the  fervid  hand  ! 
Dark  the  tide  of  hair  back-flowing 
From  the  blue- veined  temples  bland  ! 


52  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Lovely,  too,  divine  Apollo 
In  the  speed  of  his  pursuit ; 
With  his  eye  an  azure  lustre, 
And  his  voice  a  summer  lute  ! 

Looking  like  some  burnished  eagle 
Hovering  o'er  a  fluttered  bird  ; 
Not  unseen  of  silver  Naiad, 
And  of  wistful  Dryad  heard  ! 

Many  a  morn  the  naked  beauty 
Saw  her  bright  reflection  drown 
In  the  flowing  smooth-faced  river, 
While  the  god  came  sheening  down 

Down  from  Pindus  bright  Peneus 
Tells  its  muse-melodious  source  ; 
Sacred  is  its  fountained  birthplace, 
And  the  Orient  floods  its  course. 

Many  a  morn  the  sunny  darling 
Saw  the  rising  chariot-rays, 
From  the  winding  river-reaches, 
Mellowing  in  amber  haze. 

Thro'  the  flaming  mountain  gorges 
Lo,  the  River  leaps  the  plain  ; 
Like  a  wild  god-stridden  courser, 
Tossing  high  its  foamy  mane. 


DAPHNE  53 

Then  he  swims  thro'  laurelled  sunlight, 
Full  of  all  sensations  sweet, 
Misty  with  his  morning  incense, 
To  the  mirrored  maiden's  feet ! 

Wet  and  bright  the  dinting  pebbles 
Shine  where  oft  she  paused  and  stood  ; 
All  her  dreamy  warmth  revolving, 
While  the  chilly  waters  wooed. 

Like  to  rosy-born  Aurora, 
Glowing  freshly  into  view, 
When  her  doubtful  foot  she  ventures 
On  the  first  cold  morning  blue. 

White  as  that  Thessalian  lily, 
Fairest  Tempe's  fairest  flower, 
Lo,  the  tall  Penei'an  virgin, 
Stands  beneath  her  bathing  bower. 

There  the  laurellYl  wreaths  o'erarching 
Crown'd  the  dainty  shuddering  maid  ; 
There  the  dark  prophetic  laurel 
Kiss'd  her  with  its  sister  shade. 

There  the  young  green  glistening  leaflets 
Hush'd  with  love  their  breezy  peal ; 
There  the  little  opening  flowerets 
Blush'd  beneath  her  vermeil  heel ! 


54  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

There  among  the  conscious  arbours, 
Sounds  of  soft  tumultuous  wail, 
Mysteries  of  love,  melodious, 
Came  upon  the  lyric  gale  ! 

Breathings  of  a  deep  enchantment, 
Effluence  of  immortal  grace, 
Flitted  round  her  faltering  footstep, 
Spread  a  balm  about  her  face  ! 

Witless  of  the  enamour'd  presence, 
Like  a  dreamy  lotus  bud 
From  its  drowsy  stem  down-drooping, 
Gazed  she  in  the  glowing  flood. 

Softly  sweet  with  fluttering  presage, 
Felt  she  that  ethereal  sense, 
Drinking  charms  of  love  delirious, 
Reaping  bliss  of  love  intense  ! 

All  the  air  was  thrill'd  with  sunrise, 
Birds  made  music  of  her  name, 
And  the  god-impregnate  water 
Claspt  her  image  ere  she  came. 

Richer  for  that  glance  unconscious  ! 
Dearer  for  that  soft  dismay  ! 
And  the  sudden  self-possession  ! 
And  the  smile  as  bright  as  day  ! 


DAPHNE  55 

Plunging  'mid  her  scattered  tresses, 
With  her  blue  invoking  eyes  ; 
See  her  like  a  star  descending  I 
Like  a  rosebud  see  her  rise  ! 

Like  a  rosebud  in  the  morning 
Dashing  off  its  jewell'd  dews, 
Ere  unfolding  all  its  fragrance 
It  is  gathered  by  the  muse  ! 

Beauteous  in  the  foamy  laughter, 
Bubbling  round  her  shrinking  waist, 
Lo  !  from  locks  and  lips  and  eyelids 
Rain  the  glittering  pearl-drops  chaste  ! 

And  about  the  maiden  rapture 
Still  the  ruddy  ripples  play'd, 
Ebbing  round  in  startled  circlets 
When  her  arms  began  to  wade. 

Flowing  in  like  tides  attracted, 
To  the  glowing  crescent  shine  ! 
Clasping  her  ambrosial  whiteness 
Like  an  Autumn-tinted  vine  ! 

Sinking  low  with  love's  emotion  ! 
Levying  with  look  and  tone 
All  love's  rosy  arts  to  mimic 
Cytherea's  magic  zone ! 


56  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Trembling  up  with  adoration 
To  the  crimson  daisy  tip, 
Budding  from  the  snowy  bosom — 
Fainter  than  the  rose-red  lip  ! 

Rising  in  a  storm  of  wavelets, 
That  for  shelter,  feigning  fright, 
Prest  to  those  twin-heaving  havens, 
Harbour'd  there  beneath  her  light. 

Gleaming  in  a  whirl  of  eddies 
Round  her  lucid  throat  and  neck  ; 
Eddying  in  a  gleam  of  dimples 
Up  against  her  bloomy  cheek. 

Bribing  all  the  breezy  water 
With  rich  warmth,  the  nymph  to  keep 
In  a  self-imprison'd  pleasance, 
Tempting  her  from  deep  to  deep. 

Till  at  last  delirious  passion 
Thrill'd  the  god  to  wild  excess, 
And  the  fervour  of  a  moment 
Made  divinity  confess ; 

And  he  stood  in  all  his  glory  ! 
But  so  radiant,  being  near, 
That  her  eyes  were  frozen  on  him 
In  a  fascinated  fear  ! 


DAPHNE  57 

All  with  orient  splendour  shining, — 
All  with  roseate  birth  aglow, 
Gleam'd  the  golden  god  before  her, 
With  his  golden  crescent  bow. 

Soon  the  dazzled  light  subsided, 
And  he  seem'd  a  beauteous  youth, 
Form'd  to  gain  the  maiden's  murmurs, 
And  to  pledge  the  vows  of  truth. 

Ah  !  that  thus  he  had  continued  ! 
O,  that  such  for  her  had  been  ! 
Graceful  with  all  godlike  beauty, 
But  so  humanly  serene  ! 

Cheeks,  and  mouth,  and  mellow  ringlets, 
Bounteous  as  the  mid-day  beam  ; 
Pleading  looks  and  wistful  tremour, 
Tender  as  a  maiden's  dream  ! 

Palms  that  like  a  bird's  throbb'd  bosom 
Palpitate  with  eagerness, 
Lips,  the  bridals  of  the  roses, 
Dewy  sweet  from  the  caress  ! 

Lips  and  limbs,  and  eyes  and  ringlets, 
Swaying,  praying  to  one  prayer, 
Like  a  lyre,  swept  by  a  spirit, 
In  the  still,  enraptur'd  air. 


58  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Like  a  lyre  in  some  far  valley, 
Uttering  ravishments  divine  ! 
All  its  strings  to  viewless  fingers 
Yearning,  modulations  fine  ! 

Yearning  with  melodious  fervour  ! 
Like  a  beauteous  maiden  flower, 
When  the  young  beloved,  three  paces 
Hovers  from  the  bridal  bower. 

Throbbing  thro'  the  dawning  stillness  ! 
As  a  heart  within  a  breast, 
When  the  young  beloved  is  stepping 
Radiant  to  the  nuptial  nest. 

O  for  Daphne  !  gentle  Daphne  ! 
Ever  warmer  by  degrees 
Whispers  full  of  hopes  and  visions, 
Throng  her  ears  like  honey  bees  ! 

Never  yet  was  lonely  blossom 
Woo'd  with  such  delicious  voice  ! 
Never  since  hath  mortal  maiden 
Dwelt  on  such  celestial  choice  ! 

Love-suffused  she  quivers,  falters — 
Falters,  sighs,  but  never  speaks, 
All  her  rosy  blood  up -gushing, 
Overflows  her  ripe  young  cheeks. 


DAPHNE  5<J 

Blushing,  sweet  with  virgin  blushes, 
All  her  loveliness  a-flame, 
Stands  she  in  the  orient  waters, 
Stricken  o'er  with  speechless  shame  ! 

Ah  !  but  lovelier,  ever  lovelier, 
As  more  deep  the  colour  glows, 
And  the  honey-laden  lily- 
Changes  to  the  fragrant  rose. 

While  the  god  with  meek  embraces, 
Whispering  all  his  sacred  charms, 
Softly  folds  her,  gently  holds  her, 
In  his  white  encircling  arms  ! 

But,  O  Dian  !  veil  not  wholly 
Thy  pale  crescent  from  the  morn  ! 
Vanish  not,  O  virgin  goddess, 
With  that  look  of  pallid  scorn  ! 

Still  thy  pure  protecting  influence 
Shed  from  those  fair  watchful  eyes  ! — 
Lo  !  her  angry  orb  has  vanished, 
And  the  bright  sun  thrones  the  skies  ! 

Voicelessly  the  forest  Virgin 
Vanished  !  but  one  look  she  gave — 
Keen  as  Niobean  arrow 
Thro'  the  maiden's  heart  it  drave. 


60  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Thus  toward  that  throning  bosom 
Where  all  earth  is  warmed, — each  spot 
Nourished  with  autumnal  blessings — 
Icy  chill  was  Daphne  caught. 

Icy  chill !  but  swift  revulsion 
All  her  gentler  self  renewed, 
Even  as  icy  Winter  quickens 
With  bud-opening  warmth  imbued. 

Even  as  a  torpid  brooklet 
That  to  the  night-gleaming  moon 
Flashed  in  turn  the  frozen  glances, — 
Melts  upon  the  breast  of  noon. 

But  no  more — O  never,  never, 
Turns  she  to  that  bosom  bright, 
Swiftly  all  her  senses  counsel — 
All  her  nerves  are  strung  to  flight. 

O'er  the  brows  of  radiant  Pindus 
Rolls  a  shadow  dark  and  cold, 
And  a  sound  of  lamentation 
Issues  from  its  mournful  fold. 

Voice  of  the  far-sighted  Muses  ! 
Cry  of  keen  foreboding  song  ! 
Every  cleft  of  startled  Tempe 
Tingles  with  it  sharp  and  long. 


DAPHNE  61 

Over  bourn  and  bosk  and  dingle, 
Over  rivers,  over  rills, 
Runs  the  sad  subservient  Echo 
Toward  the  dim  blue  distant  hills  ! 

And  another  and  another  ! 
Tis  a  cry  more  wild  than  all ; 
And  the  hills  with  muffled  voices 
Answer  '  Daphne  !  '  to  the  call. 

And  another  and  another  1 

'Tis  a  cry  so  wildly  sweet, 

That  her  charmed  heart  turns  rebel 

To  the  instinct  of  her  feet ; 

And  she  pauses  for  an  instant ; 
But  his  arms  have  scarcely  slid 
Round  her  waist  in  cestian  girdles, 
And  his  low  voluptuous  lid 

Lifted  pleading,  and  the  honey 
Of  his  mouth  for  her's  athirst, 
Ruby  glistening,  raised  for  moisture- 
Like  a  bud  that  waits  to  burst 

In  the  sweet  espousing  showers — 
And  his  tongue  has  scarce  begun 
With  its  inarticulate  burthen — 
And  the  clouds  scarce  show  the  sun 


62  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

As  it  pierces  thro'  a  crevice 
Of  the  mass  that  closed  it  o'er, 
When  again  the  horror  flashes — 
And  she  turns  to  flight  once  more  ! 

And  again  o'er  radiant  Pindus 
Rolls  the  shadow  dark  and  cold, 
And  the  sound  of  lamentation 
Issues  from  its  sable  fold  I 

And  again  the  light  winds  chide  her 
As  she  darts  from  his  embrace — 
And  again  the  far-voiced  echoes 
Speak  their  tidings  of  the  chase. 

Loudly  now  as  swiftly,  swiftly, 

O'er  the  glimmering  sands  she  speeds  j 

Wildly  now  as  in  the  furzes 

From  the  piercing  spikes  she  bleeds. 

Deeply  and  with  direful  anguish 
As  above  each  crimson  drop, 
Passion  checks  the  god  Apollo, 
And  love  bids  him  weep  and  stop. — 

He  above  each  drop  of  crimson 
Shadowing — like  the  laurel  leaf 
That  above  himself  will  shadow, — 
Sheds  a  fadeless  look  of  grief. 


DAPHNE  63 

Then  with  love's  remorseful  discord, 
With  its  own  desire  at  war, 
Sighing  turns,  while  dimly  fleeting 
Daphne  flies  the  chase  afar. 

But  all  nature  is  against  her  ! 
Pan  with  all  his  sylvan  troop, 
Thro'  the  vista'd  woodland  valleys 
Blocks  her  course  with  cry  and  whoop  ! 

In  the  twilights  of  the  thickets 
Trees  bend  down  their  gnarled  boughs, 
Wild  green  leaves  and  low  curved  branches, 
Hold  her  hair  and  beat  her  brows. 

Many  a  brake  of  brushwood  covert 
Where  cold  darkness  slumbers  mute, 
Slips  a  shrub  to  thwart  her  passage, 
Slides  a  hand  to  clutch  her  foot. 

Glens  and  glades  of  lushest  verdure 
Toil  her  in  their  tawny  mesh, 
Wilder-woofed  ways  and  alleys 
Lock  her  struggling  limbs  in  leash. 

Feathery  grasses,  flowery  mosses, 
Knot  themselves  to  make  her  trip  ; 
Sprays  and  stubborn  sprigs  outstretching, 
Put  a  bridle  on  her  lip  ; — 


64  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Many  a  winding  lane  betrays  her, 
Many  a  sudden  bosky  shoot, 
And  her  knee  makes  many  a  stumble 
O'er  some  hidden  damp  old  root, 

Whose  quaint  face  peers  green  and  dusky 
'Mongst  the  matted  growth  of  plants, 
While  she  rises  wild  and  weltering, 
Speeding  on  with  many  pants. 

Tangles  of  the  wild  red  strawberry 
Spread  their  freckled  trammels  frail ; 
In  the  pathway  creeping  brambles 
Catch  her  in  their  thorny  trail. 

All  the  widely  sweeping  greensward 
Shifts  and  swims  from  knoll  to  knoll ; 
Grey  rough-fingered  oak  and  elm  wood 
Push  her  by  from  bole  to  bole. 

Groves  of  lemon,  groves  of  citron, 
Tall  high-foliaged  plane  and  palm, 
Bloomy  myrtle,  light-blue  olive, 
Wave  her  back  with  gusts  of  balm. 

Languid  jasmine,  scrambling  briony, 
Walls  of  close-festooning  braid, 
Fling  themselves  about  her,  mingling 
With  her  wafted  locks,  waylaid. 


DAPHNE  65 

Twisting  bindweed,  honey'd  woodbine, 
Cling  to  her,  while,  red  and  blue, 
On  her  rounded  form,  ripe  berries 
Dash  and  die  in  gory  dew. 

Running  ivies  dark  and  lingering, 
Round  her  light  limbs  drag  and  twine  ; 
Round  her  waist  with  languorous  tendrils 
Reels  and  wreathes  the  juicy  vine  ; — 

Reining  in  the  flying  creature 
With  its  arms  about  her  mouth  ; 
Bursting  all  its  mellowing  bunches 
To  seduce  her  husky  drouth. 

Crowning  her  with  amorous  clusters  ; 
Pouring  down  her  sloping  back 
Fresh-born  wines  in  glittering  rillets, 
Following  her  in  crimson  track. 

Buried,  drenched  in  dewy  foliage, 
Thus  she  glimmers  from  the  dawn, 
Watched  by  every  forest  creature, 
Fleet- foot  Oread,  frolic  Faun, 

Silver-sandalled  Arethusa 
Not  more  swiftly  fled  the  sands, 
Fled  the  plains  and  fled  the  sunlights, 
Fled  the  murmuring  ocean  strands. 

E 


66  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

O,  that  now  the  earth  would  open  ! 
O,  that  now  the  shades  would  hide  ! 
O,  that  now  the  gods  would  shelter  I 
Caverns  lead  and  seas  divide  ! 

Not  more  faint  soft-lowing  Io 
Panted  in  those  starry  eyes, 
When  the  sleepless  midnight  meadows 
Piteously  implored  the  skies  ! 

Still  her  breathless  flight  she  urges 
By  the  sanctuary  stream, 
And  the  god  with  golden  swiftness 
Follows  like  an  eastern  beam. 

Her  the  close  bewildering  greenery 
Darkens  with  its  duskiest  green, — 
Him  each  little  leaflet  welcomes, 
Flushing  with  an  orient  sheen. 

Thus  he  nears,  and  now  all  Tempe 
Rings  with  his  melodious  cry, 
Avenues  and  blue  expanses 
Beam  in  his  large  lustrous  eye  ! 

All  the  branches  start  to  music  1 
As  if  from  a  secret  spring 
Thousands  of  sweet  bills  are  bubbling 
In  the  nest  and  on  the  wing. 


DAPHNE  67 

Gleams  and  shines  the  glassy  river 
And  rich  valleys  every  one  ; 
But  of  all  the  throbbing  beauty 
Brightest !  singled  by  the  Sun  1 

Ivy  round  her  glimmering  ancle, 
Vine  about  her  glowing  brow, 
Never  sure  was  bride  so  beauteous, 
Daphne,  chosen  nymph  as  thou  ! 

Thus  he  nears  !  and  now  she  feels  him 
Breathing  hot  on  every  limb  ; 
And  he  hears  her  own  quick  pantings — 
Ah  !  that  they  might  be  for  him. 

O,  that  like  the  flower  he  tramples, 
Bending  from  his  golden  tread, 
Full  of  fair  celestial  ardours, 
She  would  bow  her  bridal  head. 

O,  that  like  the  flower  she  presses, 
Nodding  from  her  lily  touch, 
Light  as  in  the  harmless  breezes, 
She  would  know  the  god  for  such  ! 

See  !  the  golden  arms  are  round  her — 
To  the  air  she  grasps  and  clings  ! 
See  !  his  glowing  arms  have  wound  her — 
To  the  sky  she  shrieks  and  springs  ! 


68  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

See  !  the  flushing  chase  of  Tempe 
Trembles  with  Olympian  air — 
See  !  green  sprigs  and  buds  are  shooting 
From  those  white  raised  arms  of  prayer  ! 

In  the  earth  her  feet  are  rooting  ! — 
Breasts  and  limbs  and  lifted  eyes, 
Hair  and  lips  and  stretching  fingers, 
Fade  away — and  fadeless  rise. 

And  the  god  whose  fervent  rapture 
Clasps  her,  finds  his  close  embrace 
Full  of  palpitating  branches, 
And  new  leaves  that  bud  apace, 

Round  his  wonder-stricken  forehead  ; — 
While  in  ebbing  measures  slow, 
Sounds  of  softly  dying  pulses, 
Pause  and  quiver,  pause  and  go. 

Go,  and  come  again,  and  flutter 
On  the  verge  of  life, — then  flee  ! 
All  the  white  ambrosial  beauty 
Is  a  lustrous  Laurel  Tree  ! 

Still  with  the  great  panting  love -chase 
All  its  running  sap  is  warmed  ; — 
But  from  head  to  foot  the  virgin 
Is  transfigured  and  transformed. 


DAPHNE 

Changed  ! — yet  the  green  Dryad  nature 
Is  instinct  with  human  ties, 
And  above  its  anguish'd  lover 
Breathes  pathetic  sympathies. 

Sympathies  of  love  and  sorrow  ; — 
Joy  in  her  divine  escape  ! 
Breathing  through  her  bursting  foliage 
Comfort  to  his  bending  shape. 

Vainly  now  the  floating  Naiads 
Seek  to  pierce  the  laurel  maze, 
Nought  but  laurel  meets  their  glances, 
Laurel  glistens  as  they  gaze. 

Nought  but  bright  prophetic  laurel  ! 
Laurel  over  eyes  and  brows, 
Over  limbs  and  over  bosom, 
Laurel  leaves  and  laurel  boughs  ! 

And  in  vain  the  listening  Dryad 
Shells  her  hand  against  her  ear  ! — 
All  is  silence — save  the  echo 
Travelling  in  the  distance  drear. 


70  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Should  thy  love  die  ; 
O  bury  it  not  under  ice-blue  eyes  ! 

And  lips  that  deny, 
With  a  scornful  surprise, 
The  life  it  once  lived  in  thy  breast  where  it  wore 
no  disguise. 

Should  thy  love  die  ; 
O  bury  it  where  the  sweet  wild-flowers  blow  ! 

And  breezes  go  by, 
With  no  whisper  of  woe  ; 
And  strange  feet  cannot  guess  of  the  anguish  that 
slumbers  below. 

Should  thy  love  die  ; 
O  wander  once  more  to  the  haunt  of  the  bee  ! 

Where  the  foliaged  sky, 
Is  most  sacred  to  see, 
And  thy  being  first  felt  its  wild  birth  like  a  wind- 
wakened  tree. 


SONG  71 

Should  thy  love  die  ; 
O  dissemble  it !  smile  !  let  the  rose  hide  the 
thorn  ! 
While  the  lark  sings  on  high, 
And  no  thing  looks  forlorn, 
Bury  it,  bury  it,  bury  it  where  it  was  born. 


72  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


LONDON  BY  LAMPLIGHT 

There  stands  a  singer  in  the  street, 
He  has  an  audience  motley  and  meet ; 
Above  him  lowers  the  London  night, 
And  around  the  lamps  are  flaring  bright. 

His  minstrelsy  may  be  unchaste — 
'Tis  much  unto  that  motley  taste, 
And  loud  the  laughter  he  provokes 
From  those  sad  slaves  of  obscene  jokes. 

But  woe  is  many  a  passer  by 
Who  as  he  goes  turns  half  an  eye, 
To  see  the  human  form  divine 
Thus  Circe-wise  changed  into  swine  ! 

Make  up  the  sum  of  either  sex 
That  all  our  human  hopes  perplex, 
With  those  unhappy  shapes  that  know 
The  silent  streets  and  pale  cock-crow. 


LONDON  BY  LAMPLIGHT  73 

And  can  I  trace  in  such  dull  eyes 
Of  fireside  peace  or  country  skies  ? 
And  could  those  haggard  cheeks  presume 
To  memories  of  a  May-tide  bloom  ? 

Those  violated  forms  have  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  flowering  green  ; 
And  still  the  virgin  bosom  heaves 
With  daisy  meads  and  dewy  leaves. 

But  stygian  darkness  reigns  within, 
The  river  of  death  from  the  founts  of  sin  ; 
And  one  prophetic  water  rolls 
Its  gas-lit  surface  for  their  souls. 

I  will  not  hide  the  tragic  sight — 

Those  drown'd  black  locks,  those  dead  lips  white, 

Will  rise  from  out  the  slimy  flood, 

And  cry  before  God's  throne  for  blood  ! 

Those  stiffened  limbs,  that  swollen  face, — 
Pollution's  last  and  best  embrace, 
Will  call  as  such  a  picture  can, 
For  retribution  upon  man. 

Hark  !  how  their  feeble  laughter  rings, 
While  still  the  ballad-monger  sings, 
And  flatters  their  unhappy  breasts 
With  poisonous  words  and  pungent  jests. 


74  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

O  now  would  every  daisy  blush 
To  see  them  'mid  that  earthy  crush  ! 
O  dumb  would  be  the  evening  thrush, 
And  hoary  look  the  hawthorn  bush  ! 

The  meadows  of  their  infancy 
Would  shrink  from  them,  and  every  tree, 
And  every  little  laughing  spot, 
Would  hush  itself  and  know  them  not. 

Precursor  to  what  black  despairs 

Was  that  child's  face  which  once  was  theirs  ! 

And  O  to  what  a  world  of  guile 

Was  herald  that  young  angel  smile  ! 

That  face  which  to  a  father's  eye 
Was  balm  for  all  anxiety  ; 
That  smile  which  to  a  mother's  heart 
Went  swifter  than  the  swallow's  dart ! 

O  happy  homes  !  that  still  they  know 
At  intervals,  with  what  a  woe 
Would  ye  look  on  them,  dim  and  strange, 
Suffering  worse  than  winter  change  ! 

And  yet  could  I  transplant  them  there, 
To  breathe  again  the  innocent  air 
Of  youth,  and  once  more  reconcile 
Their  outcast  looks  with  nature's  smile  ; 


ft 


LONDON  BY  LAMPLIGHT 

Could  I  but  give  them  one  clear  day 
Of  this  delicious  loving  May, 
Release  their  souls  from  anguish  dark, 
And  stand  them  underneath  the  lark  ; — 

I  think  that  Nature  would  have  power 
To  graft  again  her  blighted  flower 
Upon  the  broken  stem,  renew 
Some  portion  of  its  early  hue  : — 

The  heavy  flood  of  tears  unlock, 

More  precious  than  the  Scriptured  rock  ; 

At  least  instil  a  happier  mood, 

And  bring  them  back  to  womanhood. 

Alas  !  how  many  lost  ones  claim 
This  refuge  from  despair  and  shame  ! 
How  many,  longing  for  the  light, 
Sink  deeper  in  the  abyss  this  night ! 

O,  crying  sin  !     O,  blushing  thought  I 
Not  only  unto  those  that  wrought 
The  misery  and  deadly  blight ; 
But  those  that  outcast  them  this  night ! 

O,  agony  of  grief  !  for  who 
Less  dainty  than  his  race,  will  do 
Such  battle  for  their  human  right, 
As  shall  awake  this  startled  night  ? 


76  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Proclaim  this  evil  human  page, 
Will  ever  blot  the  Golden  Age, 
That  poets  dream  and  saints  invite, 
If  it  be  unredeemed  this  night  1 

This  night  of  deep  solemnity, 
And  verdurous  serenity, 
While  over  every  fleecy  field, 
The  dews  descend  and  odours  yield. 

This  night  of  gleaming  floods  and  falls, 
Of  forest  glooms  and  sylvan  calls, 
Of  starlight  on  the  pebbly  rills, 
And  twilight  on  the  circling  hills. 

This  night  !  when  from  the  paths  of  men 

Grey  error  steams  as  from  a  fen  ; 

As  o'er  this  flaring  City  wreathes 

The  black  cloud-vapour  that  it  breathes  ! 

This  night  from  which  a  morn  will  spring 

Blooming  on  its  orient  wing  ; 

A  morn  to  roll  with  many  more 

Its  ghostly  foam  on  the  twilight  shore. 

Morn  !  when  the  fate  of  all  mankind 
Hangs  poised  in  doubt,  and  man  is  blind. 
His  duties  of  the  day  will  seem 
The  fact  of  life,  and  mine  the  dream. 


LONDON  BY  LAMPLIGHT  77 

The  destinies  that  bards  have  sung, 
Regeneration  to  the  young  ; 
Reverberation  of  the  truth, 
And  virtuous  culture  unto  youth  ! 

Youth  !  in  whose  season  let  abound 
All  flowers  and  fruits  that  strew  the  ground, 
Voluptuous  joy  where  love  consents, 
And  health  and  pleasure  pitch  their  tents  : 

All  rapture  and  all  pure  delight ; 

A  garden  all  unknown  to  blight, 

But  never  the  unnatural  night 

That  throngs  the  shameless  song  this  night ! 


78  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Under  boughs  of  breathing  May, 
In  the  mild  spring-time  I  lay, 
Lonely,  for  I  had  no  love  ; 

And  the  sweet  birds  all  sang  for  pity, 
Cuckoo,  lark,  and  dove. 

Tell  me,  cuckoo,  then  I  cried, 
Dare  I  woo  and  wed  a  bride  ? 
I,  like  thee,  have  no  home-nest ; 

And   the   twin   notes   thus   tuned   their 
ditty,— 
'  Love  can  answer  best.' 

Nor,  warm  dove  with  tender  coo, 
Have  I  thy  soft  voice  to  woo, 
Even  were  a  damsel  by  ; 

And    the    deep    woodland    crooned    its 
ditty,— 
'  Love  her  first  and  try.' 

Nor  have  I,  wild  lark,  thy  wing, 
That  from  bluest  heaven  can  bring 


SONG  79 

Bliss,  whatever  fate  befall ; 

And  the  sky-lyrist  trilled  this  ditty, — 
1  Love  will  give  thee  all.' 

So  it  chanced  while  June  was  young, 
Wooing  well  with  fervent  song, 
I  had  won  a  damsel  coy  ; 

And  the  sweet  birds  that  sang  for  pity, 
Jubileed  for  joy. 


80  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


PASTORALS 


How  sweet  on  sunny  afternoons, 
For  those  who  journey  light  and  well, 
To  loiter  up  a  hilly  rise 
Which  hides  the  prospect  far  beyond, 
And  fancy  all  the  landscape  lying 
Beautiful  and  still. 

Beneath  a  sky  of  summer  blue, 
Whose  rounded  cloudlets,  folded  soft, 
Gaze  on  the  scene  which  we  await 
And  picture  from  their  peacefulness  ; 
So  calmly  to  the  earth  inclining 

Float  those  loving  shapes  ! 

Like  airy  brides,  each  singling  out 
A  spot  to  love  and  bless  with  love, 
Their  creamy  bosoms  glowing  warm, 
Till  distance  weds  them  to  the  hills, 
And  with  its  latest  gleam  the  river 
Sinks  in  their  embrace. 


PASTORALS  81 

And  silverly  the  river  runs, 
And  many  a  graceful  wind  he  makes, 
By  fields  where  feed  the  happy  flocks, 
And  hedge-rows  hushing  pleasant  lanes, 
The  charms  of  English  home  reflected 
In  his  shining  eye. 

Ancestral  oak,  broad-foliaged  elm, 
Rich  meadows  sunned  and  starred  with  flowers, 
The  cottage  breathing  tender  smoke 
Against  the  brooding  golden  air, 
With  glimpses  of  a  stately  mansion 
On  a  woodland  sward. 

And  circling  round  as  with  a  ring, 
The  distance  spreading  amber  haze, 
Enclosing  hills  and  pastures  sweet ; 
A  depth  of  soft  and  mellow  light 
Which  fills  the  heart  with  sudden  yearning 
Aimless  and  serene  1 


No  disenchantment  follows  here, 
For  nature's  inspiration  moves 
The  dream  which  she  herself  fulfils  ; 
And  he  whose  heart  like  valley  warmth, 
Steams  up  with  joy  at  scenes  like  this 
Shall  never  be  forlorn. 


82  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  O  for  any  human  soul 
The  rapture  of  a  wide  survey — 
A  valley  sweeping  to  the  West 
With  all  its  wealth  of  loveliness, 
Is  more  than  recompense  for  days 
That  taught  us  to  endure. 


II 

Yon  upland  slope  which  hides  the  sun 
Ascending  from  his  eastern  deeps, 
And  now  against  the  hues  of  dawn, 
One  level  line  of  tillage  rears  ; 
The  furrowed  brow  of  toil  and  time  ; 
To  many  it  is  but  a  sweep  of  land  ! 

To  others  'tis  an  Autumn  trust, 
But  unto  me  a  mystery  ; — 
An  influence  strange  and  swift  as  dreams  ; 
A  whispering  of  old  romance  ; 
A  temple  naked  to  the  clouds  ; 
Or  one  of  nature's  bosoms  fresh  revealed, 

Heaving  with  adoration  !  there 
The  work  of  husbandry  is  done, 
And  daily  bread  is  daily  earned  ; 
Nor  seems  there  ought  to  indicate 
The  springs  which  move  in  me  such  thoughts 
But  from  my  soul  a  spirit  calls  them  up. 


PASTORALS  83 

All  day  into  the  open  sky, 
All  night  to  the  eternal  stars, 
For  ever  both  at  morn  and  eve 
When  mellow  distances  draw  near, 
And  shadows  lengthen  in  the  dusk, 
Athwart  the  heavens  it  rolls  its  glimmering  line  ! 

When  twilight  from  the  dream-hued  West 
Sighs  hush  !  and  all  the  land  is  still ; 
When  from  the  lush  empurpling  East, 
The  twilight  of  the  crowing  cock, 
Dawns  on  the  drowsy  village  roofs, 
Athwart  the  heavens  that  glimmering  line  is  seen. 

And  now  beneath  the  rising  sun, 
Whose  shining  chariot  overpeers, 
The  irradiate  ridge,  while  fetlock  deep 
In  the  rich  soil  his  coursers  plunge — 
How  grand  in  robes  of  light  it  looks  ! 
How  glorious  with  rare  suggestive  grace  1 

The  ploughman  mounting  up  the  height 
Becomes  a  glowing  shape,  as  though 
'Twere  young  Triptolemus,  plough  in  hand, 
While  Ceres  in  her  amber  scarf, 
With  gentle  love  directs  him  how 
To  wed  the  willing  earth  and  hope  for  fruits  ! 


84  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

The  furrows  running  up,  are  fraught 
With  meanings  ;   there  the  goddess  walks, 
While  Proserpine  is  young,  and  there — 
'Mid  the  late  autumn  sheaves,  her  voice 
Sobbing  and  choked  with  dumb  despair — 
The  nights  will  hear  her  wailing  for  her  child  ! 

Whatever  dim  tradition  tells, 
Whatever  history  may  reveal, 
Or  fancy,  from  her  starry  brows, 
Of  light  or  dreamful  lustre  shed, 
Could  not  at  this  sweet  time  increase 
The  quiet  consecration  of  the  spot. 

Blest  with  the  sweat  of  labour,  blest 
With  the  young  sun's  first  vigorous  beams, 
Village  hope  and  harvest  prayer, — 
The  heart  that  throbs  beneath  it,  holds 
A  bliss  so  perfect  in  itself 
Men's  thoughts  must  borrow  rather  than  bestow. 


Ill 


Now  standing  on  this  hedgeside  path, 
Up  which  the  evening  winds  are  blowing 
Wildly  from  the  lingering  lines 

Of  sunset  o'er  the  hills  : 


PASTORALS  85 

Unaided  by  one  motive  thought, 
My  spirit  with  a  strange  impulsion 
Rises,  like  a  fledgling, 
Whose  wings  are  not  mature,  but  still 
Supported  by  its  strong  desire, 
Beats  up  its  native  air  and  leaves 
The  tender  mother's  nest. 

Great  music  under  heaven  is  made, 
And  in  the  track  of  rushing  darkness 
Comes  the  solemn  shape  of  night, 

And  broods  above  the  earth. 
A  thing  of  Nature  am  I  now, 
Abroad,  without  a  sense  or  feeling 
Born  not  of  her  bosom  ; 
Content  with  all  her  truths  and  fates  ; 
Ev'n  as  yon  strip  of  grass  that  bows 
Above  the  new-born  violet  bloom, 

And  sings  with  wood  and  field. 


IV 


Lo,  as  a  tree,  whose  wintry  twigs 
Drink  in  the  sun  with  fibrous  joy, 
And  down  into  its  dampest  roots 
Thrills  quickened  with  the  draught  of  life, 
wake  unto  the  dawn,  and  leave  my  griefs  to 
drowse. 


86  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

I  rise  and  drink  the  fresh  sweet  air  : 
Each  draught  a  future  bud  of  Spring  ; 
Each  glance  of  blue  a  birth  of  green  ; 
I  will  not  mimic  yonder  oak 
That  dallies  with  dead  leaves  ev'n  while  the  prim- 
rose peeps. 

But  full  of  these  warm-whispering  beams, 
Like  Memnon  in  his  mother's  eye, — 
Aurora  !  when  the  statue  stone 
Moaned  soft  to  her  pathetic  touch, — 
My  soul  shall  own  its  parent  in  the  founts  of  day  ! 

And  ever  in  the  recurring  light, 
True  to  the  primal  joy  of  dawn, 
Forget  its  barren  griefs  ;   and  aye 
Like  aspens  in  the  faintest  breeze, 
Turn  all  its  silver  sides  and  tremble  into  song. 


V 


Now  from  the  meadow  floods  the  wild  duck 
clamours, 

Now  the  wood  pigeon  wings  a  rapid  flight, 

Now  the  homeward  rookery  follows  up  its  van- 
guard, 

And  the  valley  mists  are  curling  up  the  hills. 


PASTORALS  87 

Three  short  songs  gives  the  clear-voiced  throstle, 
Sweetening  the  twilight  ere  he  fills  the  nest ; 
While  the  little  bird  upon  the  leafless  branches 
Tweets  to  its  mate  a  tiny  loving  note. 

Deeper  the  stillness  hangs  on  every  motion  ; 
Calmer  the  silence  follows  every  call ; 
Now  all  is  quiet  save  the  roosting  pheasant, 
The  bell-wether  tinkle  and  the  watch-dog's  bark. 

Softly  shine  the  lights  from  the  silent  kindling 

homestead, 
Stars  of  the  hearth  to  the  shepherd  in  the  fold  ; 
Springs  of  desire  to  the  traveller  on  the  roadway  ; 
Ever  breathing  incense  to  the  ever-blessing  sky  ! 


VI 

How  barren  would  this  valley  be, 
Without  the  golden  orb  that  gazes 
On  it,  broadening  to  hues 
Of  rose,  and  spreading  wings  of  amber ; 
Blessing  it  before  it  falls  asleep. 

How  barren  would  this  valley  be, 
Without  the  human  lives  now  beating 
In  it,  or  the  throbbing  hearts 
Far  distant,  who  their  flower  of  childhood 
Cherish  here,  and  water  it  with  tears  ! 


88  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

How  barren  should  I  be,  were  I 
Without  above  that  loving  splendour, 
Shedding  light  and  warmth  !  without 
Some  kindred  natures  of  my  kind 
To  joy  in  me,  or  yearn  towards  me  now  ! 


VII 

Summer  glows  warm  on  the  meadows,  and  speed- 
well, and  gold-cups,  and  daisies, 
Darken    'mid    deepening    masses    of    sorrel,    and 

shadowy  grasses 
Show  the  ripe  hue  to  the  farmer,  and  summon  the 

scythe  and  the  hay-makers 
Down  from  the  village  ;  and  now,  even  now,  the  air 

smells  of  the  mowing, 
And  the  sharp  song  of  the  scythe  whistles  daily  ;• 

from  dawn,  till  the  gloaming 
Wears  its  cool  star  ;    sweet  and  welcome  to  all 

flaming  faces  afield  now  ; 
Heavily  weighs  the  hot  season,  and  drowses  the 

darkening  foliage, 
Drooping  with  languor ;    the  white  cloud  floats, 

but  sails  not,  for  windless 
Heaven's  blue  tents  it ;    no  lark  singing  up  in  its 

fleecy  white  valleys  ; 
Up  in  its  fairy  white  valleys,  once  feathered  with 

minstrels  :  melodious 


PASTORALS  89 

With  the  invisible  joy  that  wakes  dawn  o'er  the 

green  fields  of  England. 
Summer  glows  warm  on  the  meadows  ;  then  come, 

let  us  roam  thro'  them  gaily, 
Heedless  of  heat,  and  the  hot-kissing  sun,  and  the 

fear  of  dark  freckles. 
Never  one  kiss  will  he  give  on  a  neck,  or  a  lily-white 

forehead, 
Chin,  hand,  or  bosom  uncovered,  all  panting,  to 

take  the  chance  coolness, — 
But   full   sure  the  fiery  pressure  leaves   seal   of 

espousal. 
Heed  him  not ;   come,  tho'  he  kiss  till  the  soft  little 

upper-lip  loses 
Half  its  pure  whiteness  ;    just  speck'd  where  the 

curve  of  the  rosy  mouth  reddens. 


Come,  let  him  kiss,  let  him  kiss,  and  his  kisses  shall 

make  thee  the  sweeter. 
Thou  art  no  nun,  veiled  and  vowed  ;    doomed  to 

nourish  a  withering  pallor  ! 
City  exotics  beside  thee  would  show  like  bleached 

linen  at  mid-day, 
Hung  upon  hedges   of  eglantine !     Thou   in  the 

freedom  of  nature, 
Full  of  her  beauty  and  wisdom,  gentleness,  joy- 

ance,  and  kindness  ! 


90  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Come,  and  like  bees  will  we  gather  the  rich  golden 

honey  of  noontide  ; 
Deep  in  the  sweet  summer  meadows,  border'd  by 

hillside  and  river ; 
Lined  with  long  trenches  half-hidden,  where,  smell 

of  white  meadow-sweet,  sweetest 
Blissfully  hovers — O  sweetest !  but  pluck  it  not ! 

even  in  the  tenderest 
Grasp  it  will  lose  breath  and  wither ;    like  many, 

not  made  for  a  posy. 


See,  the  sun  slopes  down  to  the  meadows,  where  all 
the  flowers  are  falling  ! 

Falling  unhymned  ;  for  the  nightingale  scarce  ever 
charms  the  long  twilight : 

Mute  with  the  cares  of  the  nest ;  only  known  by 
a  *  chuck,  chuck,'  and  dovelike 

Call  of  content,  but  the  finch  and  the  linnet  and 
blackcap  pipe  loudly. 

Round  on  the  western  hill-side  warbles  the  rich- 
billed  ouzel ; 

And  the  shrill  throstle  is  filling  the  tangled  thicken- 
ing copses  ; 

Singing  o'er  hyacinths  hid,  and  most  honey'd  of 
flowers,  white  field-rose. 

Joy  thus  to  revel  all  day  in  the  grass  of  our  own 
beloved  country ; 


PASTORALS  91 

Revel  all  day,  till  the  lark  mounts  at  eve  with  his 
sweet  '  tirra-lirra  '  : 

Trilling  delightfully.  See,  on  the  river  the  slow- 
rippled  surface 

Shining  ;  the  slow  ripple  broadens  in  circles  ;  the 
bright  surface  smoothens  : 

Now  it  is  flat  as  the  leaves  of  the  yet  unseen  water- 
lily. 

There  dart  the  lives  of  a  day,  ever-varying  tactics 
fantastic. 

There,  by  the  wet-mirrored  osiers,  the  emerald 
wing  of  the  kingfisher 

Flashes,  the  fish  in  his  beak  !  there  the  dab-chick 
dived,  and  the  motion 

Lazily  undulates  all  thro'  the  tall  standing  army  of 
rushes. 


Joy  thus  to  revel  all  day,  till  the  twilight  turns  us 
homeward  ! 

Till  all  the  lingering  deep-blooming  splendour  of 
sunset  is  over, 

And  the  one  star  shines  mildly  in  mellowing  hues, 
like  a  spirit 

Sent  to  assure  us  that  light  never  dieth,  tho'  day 
is  now  buried. 

Saying  :  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  few  hours  inter- 
vening, that  interval 


92  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Tuned  by  the  woodlark  in  heaven,  to-morrow  my 

semblance,  far  eastward, 
Heralds  the  day  'tis  my  mission  eternal  to  seal  and 

to  prophecy. 

Come  then,  and  homeward  ;  passing  down  the  close 

path  of  the  meadows. 
Home,  like  the  bees  stored  with  sweetness  ;    each 

with  a  lark  in  the  bosom, 
Trilling  for  ever,  and  oh  !  will  yon  lark  ever  cease 

to  sing  up  there  ? 


SONG 


SONG 

Spring 

When  buds  of  palm  do  burst  and  spread 
Their  downy  feathers  in  the  lane, 

And  orchard  blossoms,  white  and  red, 

Breathe  Spring  delight  for  Autumn  gain  ; 
And  the  skylark  shakes  his  wings  in  the  rain 

O  then  is  the  season  to  look  for  a  bride  ! 

Choose  her  warily,  woo  her  unseen  ; 
For  the  choicest  maids  are  those  that  hide 

Like  dewy  violets  under  the  green. 


94  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Autumn 

When  nuts  behind  the  hazel-leaf 

Are  brown  as  the  squirrel  that  hunts  them 
free, 
And  the  fields  are  rich  with  the  sun-burnt  sheaf, 
'Mid  the  blue  cornflower  and  the  yellowing 

tree  ; 
And  the  farmer  glows  and  beams  in  his  glee  ; 

O  then  is  the  season  to  wed  thee  a  bride  ! 

Ere  the  garners  are  filled  and  the  ale-cups 
foam  ; 
For  a  smiling  hostess  is  the  pride 

And  flower  of  every  Harvest  Home. 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY       95 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the  green- 
sward, 
Crouch 'd   with   her   arms    behind    her    little 
head, 
Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her  bosom, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath  her, 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I  folded 
slow, 
Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but  embrace 
me — 
Ah  !  would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the  swallow  ; 
Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  western 
flood 
Circleting  the  surface  he  meets  his  mirrored  wing- 
lets,— 
Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 


96  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine-tops  ; 

Gentle — ah !   that   she  were   jealous    as    the 
dove  ! 
Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  creatures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  ! 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  I  tell  her  ? 
Can  she  truly  doubt  me  when  looking  on  my 
brows  ? 
Nature  never  teaches  distrust  of  tender  love-tales, 
What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  my 
vows  ? 
No,  she  does  not  doubt  me  !  on  a  dewy  eve-tide 
Whispering    together    beneath    the    listening 
moon, 
I  pray'd  till  her  cheek  flush'd,  implored  till  she 
faltered — 
Fluttered  to  my  bosom — ah  !  to  fly  away  so 


When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing 
mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 

I  should  have  more  love,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  bashful 
mirror, 
Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY  97 

Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and  girls. 

Clambering  roses  peep  into  her  chamber, 

Jasmine  and  woodbine  breathe  sweet,  sweet, 
White-necked  swallows  twittering  of  summer, 

Fill  her  with  balm   and   nested   peace   from 
head  to  feet. 
Ah  !  will  the  rose-bough  see  her  lying  lonely, 

When  the  petals  fall  and  fierce  bloom  is  on 
the  leaves  ? 
Will  the  Autumn  garners  see  her  still  ungathered, 
When  the  fickle  swallows  forsake  the  weeping 
eaves  ? 

Comes  a  sudden  question — should  a  strange  hand 
pluck  her  ! 
Oh!  what  an  anguish  smites  me  at  the  thought. 
Should   some  idle  lordling  bribe  her  mind  with 
jewels  ! — 
Can  such  beauty  ever  thus  be  bought  ? 
Sometimes  the  huntsmen  prancing  down  the  valley 
Eye  the  village  lasses,  full  of  sprightly  mirth  ; 
They  see  as  I  see,  mine  is  the  fairest  ! 

Would   she   were   older  and   could   read   my 
worth  ! 

Are  there  not  sweet  maidens  if  she  still  deny  me  ? 
Show  the  bridal  heavens  but  one  bright  star  ? 

G 


98  POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Wherefore  thus  then  do  I  chase  a  shadow, 

Clattering  one  note  like  a  brown  eve- jar  ? 
So  I  rhyme  and  reason  till  she  darts  before  me — 
Thro'  the  milky  meadows  from  flower  to  flower 
she  flies, 
Sunning  her  sweet  palms  to  shade  her  dazzled  eye- 
lids 
From  the  golden  love  that  looks  too  eager  in 
her  eyes. 

When  at  dawn  she  wakens,  and  her  fair  face  gazes 

Out  on  the  weather  thro'  the  window-panes, 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  on  the  rippled  river  plains. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to 
ankle 

In  her  long  nightgown,  sweet  as  boughs  of 
May, 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  tall  garden  lily 

Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  for  the  day  ! 

Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  grey  star  twinkles 

Over  the  fields  all  fresh  with  bloomy  dew  ; 
When  the  cold-cheeked  dawn  grows  ruddy  up  the 
twilight, 
And  the  gold  sun  wakes,  and  weds  her  in  the 
blue. 
Then  when  my  darling  tempts  the  early  breezes, 
She  the  only  star  that  dies  not  with  the  dark  ! 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY  99 

Powerless  to  speak  all  the  ardour  of  my  passion 
I  catch  her  little  hand  as  we  listen  to  the  lark. 

Shall  the  birds  in  vain  then  valentine  their  sweet- 
hearts ? 
Season  after  season  tell  a  fruitless  tale  ; 
Will  not  the  virgin  listen  to  their  voices  ? 

Take  the  honeyed  meaning,  wear  the  bridal 
veil? 
Fears   she   frosts   of  winter,    fears   she   the   bare 
branches  ? 
Waits  she  the  garlands  of  spring  for  her  dower  ? 
Is  she  a  nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 

Till  the  April  woodland  has  built  her  bridal 
bower  ? 

Then  come  merry  April  with  all  thy  birds  and 
beauties  ! 
With   thy   crescent   brows   and   thy   flowery, 
showery  glee  ; 
With  thy  budding  leafage  and  fresh  green  pastures  ; 
And  may  thy  lustrous  crescent  grow  a  honey- 
moon for  me  ! 
Come  merry  month  of  the  cuckoo  and  the  violet  ! 
Come    weeping    Loveliness    in    all    thy    blue 
delight ! 
Lo  !  the  nest  is  ready,  let  me  not  languish  longer  ! 
Bring  her  to  my  arms  on  the  first  May  night. 


100        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


BEAUTY  ROHTRAUT 

(From  Moricke) 

What  is  the  name  of  King  Ringang's  daughter  ? 

Rohtraut,  Beauty  Rohtraut  ! 
And  what  does  she  do  the  livelong  day, 
Since  she  dare  not  knit  and  spin  alway  ? 

0  hunting  and  fishing  is  ever  her  play  ! 
And,  heigh  !  that  her  huntsman  I  might  be  ! 

1  'd  hunt  and  fish  right  merrily  1 

Be  silent,  heart ! 

And  it  chanced  that,  after  this  some  time, 

Rohtraut,  Beauty  Rohtraut, 
The  boy  in  the  Castle  has  gained  access, 
And  a  horse  he  has  got  and  a  huntsman's  dress, 
To  hunt  and  to  fish  with  the  merry  Princess  ; 
And,  O  !  that  a  king's  son  I  might  be  ! 
Beauty  Rohtraut  I  love  so  tenderly. 
Hush  !  hush  !  my  heart. 


BEAUTY  ROHTRAUT  101 

Under  a  grey  old  oak  they  sat, 

Beauty,  Beauty  Rohtraut ! 
She  laughs  :  '  Why  look  you  so  slyly  at  me  ? 
If  you  have  heart  enough,  come,  kiss  me.' 
Cried  the  breathless  boy,  '  kiss  thee  ?  ' 
But   he   thinks,    kind    fortune   has   favoured   my 

youth  ; 
And  thrice  he  has  kissed  Beauty  Rohtraut's  mouth. 
Down  !  down  !  mad  heart. 

Then  slowly  and  silently  they  rode  home, — 

Rohtraut,  Beauty  Rohtraut ! 
The  boy  was  lost  in  his  delight : 
'  And,  wert  thou  Empress  this  very  night, 
I  would  not  heed  or  feel  the  blight ; 
Ye  thousand  leaves  of  the  wild  wood  wist 
How  Beauty  Rohtraut's  mouth  I  kiss'd. 
Hush  !  hush  !  wild  heart.' 


102         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

0  skylark  !  I  see  thee  and  call  thee  joy  ! 

Thy  wings  bear  thee  up  to  the  breast  of  the  dawn  ; 

1  see  thee  no  more,  but  thy  song  is  still 
The  tongue  of  the  heavens  to  me  ! 

Thus  are  the  days  when  I  was  a  boy  ; 

Sweet  while  I  lived  in  them,  dear  now  they  're 

gone  : 
I  feel  them  no  longer,  but  still,  O  still 
They  tell  of  the  heavens  to  me. 


SORROWS  AND  JOYS  103 


SORROWS  AND  JOYS 

Bury  thy  sorrows,  and  they  shall  rise 

As  souls  to  the  immortal  skies, 

And  there  look  down  like  mothers'  eyes. 

But  let  thy  joys  be  fresh  as  flowers, 
That  suck  the  honey  of  the  showers, 
And  bloom  alike  on  huts  and  towers. 

So  shall  thy  days  be  sweet  and  bright ; 
Solemn  and  sweet  thy  starry  night, 
Conscious  of  love  each  change  of  light. 

The  stars  will  watch  the  flowers  asleep, 
The  flowers  will  feel  the  soft  stars  weep, 
And  both  will  mix  sensations  deep. 

With  these  below,  with  those  above, 
Sits  evermore  the  brooding  dove, 
Uniting  both  in  bonds  of  love. 


104        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

For  both  by  nature  are  akin  ; 
Sorrow,  the  ashen  fruit  of  sin, 
And  joy,  the  juice  of  life  within. 

Children  of  earth  are  these  ;   and  those 
The  spirits  of  divine  repose — 
Death  radiant  o'er  all  human  woes. 

O,  think  what  then  had  been  thy  doom, 

If  homeless  and  without  a  tomb, 

They  had  been  left  to  haunt  the  gloom  ! 

O,  think  again  what  now  they  are — 
Motherly  love,  tho'  dim  and  far, 
Imaged  in  every  lustrous  star. 

For  they,  in  their  salvation,  know 

No  vestige  of  their  former  woe, 

While  thro'  them  all  the  heavens  do  flow. 

Thus  art  thou  wedded  to  the  skies, 
And  watched  by  ever-loving  eyes, 
And  warned  by  yearning  sympathies. 


SONG  105 


SONG 

The  Flower  unfolds  its  dawning  cup, 
And  the  young  sun  drinks  the  star-dews  up, 
At  eve  it  droops  with  the  bliss  of  day, 
And  dreams  in  the  midnight  far  away. 

So  am  I  in  thy  sole,  sweet  glance, 
Pressed  with  a  weight  of  utterance  ; 
Lovingly  all  my  leaves  unfold, 
And  gleam  to  the  beams  of  thirsty  gold. 

At  eve  I  droop,  for  then  the  swell 
Of  feeling  falters  forth  farewell ; — 
At  midnight  I  am  dreaming  deep, 
Of  what  has  been,  in  blissful  sleep. 

When — ah  !  when  will  love's  own  light 
Wed  me  alike  thro'  day  and  night, 
When  will  the  stars  with  their  linking  charms 
Wake  us  in  each  other's  arms  ? 


106        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  spring, 
As  the  Arab  seeks  at  eve, 
Thirsty  from  the  shining  sands  ; 
There  to  bathe  his  face  and  hands, 
While  the  sun  is  taking  leave, 
And  dewy  sleep  is  a  delicious  thing. 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  dream, 
As  he  dreams  upon  the  grass, 
While  the  bubbling  coolness  near, 
Makes  sweet  music  in  his  ear  ; 
And  the  stars  that  slowly  pass, 
In  solitary  grandeur  o'er  him  gleam. 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  dawn, 
As  the  dawn,  whose  ruddy  kiss 
Wakes  him  to  his  darling  steed  ; 
And  again  the  desert  speed, 
And  again  the  desert  bliss, 
Lightens  thro'  his  veins,  and  he  is  gone  ! 


ANTIGONE  107 


ANTIGONE 

The  buried  voice  bespake  Antigone. 

O  sister  !  couldst  thou  know  as  thou  wilt  know, 

The  bliss  above,  the  reverence  below, 

Enkindled  by  thy  sacrifice  for  me  ; 

Thou  wouldst  at  once  with  holy  ecstasy, 

Give  thy  warm  limbs  into  the  yearning  earth. 

Sleep,  Sister  !  for  Elysium's  dawning  birth, — 

And  faith  will  fill  thee  with  what  is  to  be  ! 

Sleep,  for  the  Gods  are  watching  over  thee  ! 

Thy  dream  will  steer  thee  to  perform  their  will, 

As  silently  their  influence  they  instil. 

O  Sister  !  in  the  sweetness  of  thy  prime, 

Thy  hand  has  plucked  the  bitter  flower  of  death  : 

But  this  will  dower  thee  with  Elysian  breath, 

That  fade  into  a  never-fading  clime. 

Dear  to  the  Gods  are  those  that  do  like  thee 

A  solemn  duty  !  for  the  tyranny 

Of  kings  is  feeble  to  the  soul  that  dares 

Defy  them  to  fulfil  its  sacred  cares  : 

And  weak  against  a  mighty  will  are  men. 

O,  Torch  between  two  brothers  !  in  whose  gleam 


108         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Our  slaughtered  House  doth  shine  as  one  again, 

Tho'  severed  by  the  sword  ;  now  may  thy  dream 

Kindle  desire  in  thee  for  us,  and  thou, 

Forgetting  not  thy  lover  and  his  vow, 

Leaving  no  human  memory  forgot, 

Shalt  cross,  not  unattended,  the  dark  stream 

Which  runs  by  thee  in  sleep  and  ripples  not. 

The  large  stars  glitter  thro'  the  anxious  night, 

And  the  deep  sky  broods  low  to  look  at  thee  : 

The  air  is  hush'd  and  dark  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  all  is  waiting  for  the  morrow  light : 

So  do  thy  kindred  spirits  wait  for  thee. 

O  Sister  !  soft  as  on  the  downward  rill, 

Will  those  first  daybeams  from  the  distant  hill 

Fall  on  the  smoothness  of  thy  placid  brow, 

Like  this  calm  sweetness  breathing  thro'  me  now  : 

And  when  the  fated  sounds  shall  wake  thine  eyes, 

Wilt  thou,  confiding  in  the  supreme  will, 

In  all  thy  maiden  steadfastness  arise, 

Firm  to  obey  and  earnest  to  fulfil ; 

Remembering  the  night  thou  didst  not  sleep, 

And  this  same  brooding  sky  beheld  thee  creep, 

Defiant  of  unnatural  decree, 

To  where  I  lay  upon  the  outcast  land  ; 

Before  the  iron  gates  upon  the  plain  ; 

A  wretched,  graveless  ghost,  whose  wailing  chill, 

Came  to  thy  darkened  door  imploring  thee  ; 

Yearning  for  burial  like  my  brother  slain ; — 


ANTIGONE  109 

And  all  was  dared  for  love  and  piety  ! 

This  thought  will  nerve  again  thy  virgin  hand 

To  serve  its  purpose  and  its  destiny.' 

She  woke,  they  led  her  forth,  and  all  was  still. 


Swathed  round  in  mist  and  crown'd  with  cloud, 

O  Mountain  !  hid  from  peak  to  base — 

Caught  up  into  the  heavens  and  clasped 

In  white  ethereal  arms  that  make 

Thy  mystery  of  size  sublime  ! 

What  eye  or  thought  can  measure  now 

Thy  grand  dilating  loftiness  ! 

What  giant  crest  dispute  with  thee 

Supremacy  of  air  and  sky  ! 

What  fabled  height  with  thee  compare  ! 

Not  those  vine- terraced  hills  that  seethe 

The  lava  in  their  fiery  cusps  ; 

Nor  that  high-climbing  robe  of  snow, 

Whose  summits  touch  the  morning  star, 

And  breathe  the  thinnest  air  of  life ; 

Nor  crocus-crouching  Ida,  warm 

With  Juno's  latest  nuptial  lure  ; 

Nor  Tenedos  whose  dreamy  eye 

Still  looks  upon  beleaguered  Troy  ; 

Nor  yet  Olympus  crown'd  with  gods, 


110        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Can  boast  a  majesty  like  thine, 

O  Mountain  !  hid  from  peak  to  base, 

And  image  of  the  awful  power 

With  which  the  secret  of  all  things 

That  stoops  from  heaven  to  garment  earth, 

Can  speak  to  any  human  soul, 

When  once  the  earthly  limits  lose 

Their  pointed  heights  and  sharpened  lines, 

And  measureless  immensity 

Is  palpable  to  sense  and  sight. 


SONG  111 


SONG 

No,  no,  the  falling  blossom  is  no  sign 

Of  loveliness  destroy'd  and  sorrow  mute  ; 

The  blossom  sheds  its  loveliness  divine  ; — 
Its  mission  is  to  prophecy  the  fruit. 

Nor  is  the  day  of  love  for  ever  dead, 

When  young  enchantment  and  romance  are 
gone  ; 
The  veil  is  drawn,  but  all  the  future  dread 

Is  lightened  by  the  finger  of  the  dawn. 

Love  moves  with  life  along  a  darker  way, 

They  cast  a  shadow  and  they  call  it  death  : 

But  rich  is  the  fulfilment  of  their  day  ; 

The  purer  passion  and  the  firmer  faith. 


112        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  TWO  BLACKBIRDS 

A  Blackbird  in  a  wicker  cage, 

That  hung  and  swung  'mid  fruits  and  flowers, 
Had  learnt  the  song-charm,  to  assuage 

The  drearness  of  its  wingless  hours. 

And  ever  when  the  song  was  heard, 

From  trees  that  shade  the  grassy  plot 

Warbled  another  glossy  bird, 

Whose  mate  not  long  ago  was  shot. 

Strange  anguish  in  that  creature's  breast, 

Unwept  like  human  grief,  unsaid, 
Has  quickened  in  its  lonely  nest 

A  living  impulse  from  the  dead. 

Not  to  console  its  own  wild  smart, — 
But  with  a  kindling  instinct  strong, 

The  novel  feeling  of  its  heart 

Beats  for  the  captive  bird  of  song. 


THE  TWO  BLACKBIRDS  113 

And  when  those  mellow  notes  are  still, 
It  hops  from  off  its  choral  perch, 

O'er  path  and  sward,  with  busy  bill, 

All  grateful  gifts  to  peck  and  search. 

Store  of  ouzel  dainties  choice 

To  those  white  swinging  bars  it  brings  ; 
And  with  a  low  consoling  voice, 

It  talks  between  its  fluttering  wings. 

Deeply  in  their  bitter  grief 

Those  sufferers  reciprocate, 
The  one  sings  for  its  woodland  life, 

The  other  for  its  murdered  mate. 

But  deeper  doth  the  secret  prove, 

Uniting  those  sad  creatures  so  ; 
Humanity's  great  link  of  love, 

The  common  sympathy  of  woe. 

Well  divined  from  day  to  day, 

Is  the  swift  speech  between  them  twain  ; 
For  when  the  bird  is  scared  away, 

The  captive  bursts  to  song  again. 

Yet  daily  with  its  flattering  voice, 

Talking  amid  its  fluttering  wings, 

Store  of  ouzel  dainties  choice, 

With  busy  bill  the  poor  bird  brings, 
n 


114         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  shall  I  say,  till  weak  with  age, 

Down  from  its  drowsy  branch  it  drops, 

It  will  not  leave  that  captive  cage, 

Nor  cease  those  busy  searching  hops  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  moral  will  not  strain  ; 

Another  sense  will  make  it  range, 
Another  mate  will  soothe  its  pain, 

Another  season  work  a  change. 

But  thro'  the  live-long  summer,  tried, 
A  pure  devotion  we  may  see  ; 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  Nature's  tide  ; 
A  self-forgetful  sympathy. 


JULY  115 


JULY 


Blue  July,  bright  July, 

Month  of  storms  and  gorgeous  blue ; 
Violet  lightnings  o'er  thy  sky, 

Heavy  falls  of  drenching  dew  ; 
Summer  crown  !   o'er  glen  and  glade 
Shrinking  hyacinths  in  their  shade  ; 
I  welcome  thee  with  all  thy  pride, 
I  love  thee  like  an  Eastern  bride. 

Though  all  the  singing  days  are  done 

As  in  those  climes  that  clasp  the  sun  ; 

Though  the  cuckoo  in  his  throat, 

Leaves  to  the  dove  his  last  twin  note ; 
Come  to  me  with  thy  lustrous  eye, 
Golden-dawning  oriently, 
Come  with  all  thy  shining  blooms, 
Thy  rich  red  rose  and  rolling  glooms. 

Though  the  cuckoo  doth  but  sing  '  cuk,  cuk,' 
And  the  dove  alone  doth  coo  ; 

Though  the  cushat  spins  her  coo-r-roo,r-r-roo — 
To  the  cuckoo's  halting  '  cuk.' 


116         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

n 

Sweet  July,  warm  July  ! 

Month  when  mosses  near  the  stream, 
Soft  green  mosses  thick  and  shy, 

Are  a  rapture  and  a  dream. 
Summer  Queen  !   whose  foot  the  fern 
Fades  beneath  while  chestnuts  burn  ; 
I  welcome  thee  with  thy  fierce  love, 
Gloom  below  and  gleam  above. 

Though  all  the  forest  trees  hang  dumb, 

With  dense  leanness  o'ercome  ; 

Though  the  nightingale  and  thrush, 

Pipe  not  from  the  bough  or  bush  ; 
Come  to  me  with  thy  lustrous  eye, 
Azure-melting  westerly, 
The  raptures  of  thy  face  unfold, 
And  welcome  in  thy  robes  of  gold  ! 

Though  the  nightingale  broods — '  sweet -chuck 
sweet  ' — 
And  the  ouzel  flutes  so  chill, 

Tho'  the  throstle  gives  but  one  shrilly  trill 
To  the  nightingale's  '  sweet-sweet.' 


SONG  117 


SONG 


I  would  I  were  the  drop  of  rain 
That  falls  into  the  dancing  rill, 

For  I  should  seek  the  river  then, 
And  roll  below  the  wooded  hill, 
Until  I  reached  the  sea. 

And  O,  to  be  the  river  swift 

That  wrestles  with  the  wilful  tide, 
And  fling  the  briny  weeds  aside 

That  o'er  the  foamy  billows  drift, 
Until  I  came  to  thee  ! 

I  would  that  after  weary  strife, 

And  storm  beneath  the  piping  wind, 

The  current  of  my  true  fresh  life, 

Might  come  unmingled,  unimbrined. 
To  where  thou  floatest  free. 

Might  find  thee  in  some  amber  clime, 
Where  sunlight  dazzles  on  the  sail, 
And  dreaming  of  our  plighted  vale, 

Might  seal  the  dream,  and  bless  the  time, 
With  maiden  kisses  three. 


118        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


SONG 

Come  to  me  in  any  shape  ! 

As  a  victor  crown'd  with  vine, 
In  thy  curls  the  clustering  grape, — 

Or  a  vanquished  slave  : 
'Tis  thy  coming  that  I  crave, 

And  thy  folding  serpent  twine, 
Close  and  dumb  ; 
Ne'er  from  that  would  I  escape  ; 
Come  to  me  in  any  shape  ! 
Only  come  1 

Only  come,  and  in  my  breast 

Hide  thy  shame  or  show  thy  pride ; 
In  my  bosom  be  caressed, 

Never  more  to  part ; 
Come  into  my  yearning  heart ; 
I,  the  serpent,  golden-eyed, 
Twine  round  thee  ; 
Twine  thee  with  no  venomed  test, 
Absence  makes  the  venomed  nest ; 
Come  to  me  ! 


SONG  119 

Come  to  me,  my  lover,  come  ! 

Violets  on  the  tender  stem 
Die  and  wither  in  their  bloom, 

Under  dewy  grass  ; 
Come,  my  lover,  or,  alas  ! 

I  shall  die,  shall  die  like  them, 
Frail  and  lone  ; 
Come  to  me,  my  lover,  come  ! 
Let  thy  bosom  be  my  tomb  : 
Come,  my  own  1 


120         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS 

Swept  from  his  fleet  upon  that  fatal  night 
When  great  Poseidon's  sudden-veering  wrath 
Scattered  the  happy  homeward-floating  Greeks 
Like  foam-flakes  off  the  waves,  the  King  of  Crete 
Held  lofty  commune  with  the  dark  Sea-god. 
His  brows  were  crowned  with  victory,  his  cheeks 
Were  flushed  with  triumph,  but  the  mighty  joy 
Of  Troy's  destruction  and  his  own  great  deeds 
Passed,    for   the   thoughts    of   home   were   dearer 

now, 
And  sweet  the  memory  of  wife  and  child, 
And  weary  now  the  ten  long,  foreign  years, 
And  terrible  the  doubt  of  short  delay — 
More  terrible,  O  Gods  !   he  cried,  but  stopped  ; 
Then  raised  his  voice  upon  the  storm  and  prayed. 
O  thou,  if  injured,  injured  not  by  me, 
Poseidon  !   whom  sea-deities  obey 
And  mortals  worship,  hear  me  !   for  indeed 
It  was  our  oath  to  aid  the  cause  of  Greece, 
Not  unespoused  by  gods,  and  most  of  all 
By  thee,  if  gentle  currents,  havens  calm, 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS     121 

Fair  winds  and  prosperous  voyage,  and  the  Shape 

Impersonate  in  many  a  perilous  hour, 

Both  in  the  stately  councils  of  the  Kings, 

And  when  the  husky  battle  murmured  thick, 

May  testify  of  services  performed  ! 

But  now  the  seas  are  haggard  with  thy  wrath, 

Thy  breath  is  tempest !   never  at  the  shores 

Of  hostile  Ilium  did  thy  stormful  brows 

Betray  such  fierce  magnificence  !   not  even 

On  that  wild  day  when  mad  with  torch  and  glare, 

The  frantic  crowds  with  eyes  like  starving  wolves, 

Burst  from  their  ports  impregnable,  a  stream 

Of  headlong  fury  toward  the  hissing  deep  ; 

Where  then  full-armed  I  stood  in  guard,  compact 

Beside  thee,  and  alone,  with  brand  and  spear, 

We  held  at  bay  the  swarming  brood,  and  poured 

Blood  of  choice  warriors  on  the  foot-ploughed  sands ! 

Thou,  meantime,  dark  with  conflict,  as  a  cloud 

That  thickens  in  the  bosom  of  the  West 

Over  quenched  sunset,  circled  round  with  flame. 

Huge  as  a  billow  running  from  the  winds 

Long  distances,  till  with  black  shipwreck  swoln, 

It  flings  its  angry  mane  about  the  sky. 

And  like  that  billow  heaving  ere  it  burst ; 

And  like  that  cloud  urged  by  impulsive  storm 

With  charge  of  thunder,  lightning,  and  the  drench 

Of  torrents,  thou  in  all  thy  majesty 

Of  mightiness  didst  fall  upon  the  war  ! 


122         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Remember  that  great  moment !     Nor  forget 
The  aid  I  gave  thee  ;   how  my  ready  spear 
Flew  swiftly  seconding  thy  mortal  stroke, 
Where'er  the  press  was  hottest ;   never  slacked 
My  arm  its  duty,  nor  mine  eye  its  aim, 
Though  terribly  they  compassed  us,  and  stood 
Thick  as  an  Autumn  forest,  whose  brown  hair, 
Lustrous  with  sunlight,  by  the  still  increase 
Of  heat  to  glowing  heat  conceives  like  zeal 
Of  radiance,  till  at  the  pitch  of  noon 
'Tis  seized  with  conflagration  and  distends 
Horridly  over  leagues  of  doom'd  domain. 
Mingling  the  screams  of  birds,  the  cries  of  brutes, 
The  wail  of  creatures  in  the  covert  pent, 
Howls,  yells,  and  shrieks  of  agony,  the  hiss 
Of  seething  sap,  and  crash  of  falling  boughs 
Together  in  its  dull  voracious  roar. 

So  closely  and  so  fearfully  they  throng'd, 
Savage  with  phantasies  of  victory, 
A  sea  of  dusky  shapes  ;   for  day  had  passed 
And  night  fell  on  their  darkened  faces,  red 
With  fight  and  torchflare  ;   shrill  the  resonant  air 
With  eager  shouts,  and  hoarse  with  angry  groans  ; 
While  over  all  the  dense  and  sullen  boom, 
The  din  and  murmur  of  the  myriads, 
Rolled  with  its  awful  intervals,  as  though 
The  battle  breathed,  or  as  against  the  shore 
Waves  gather  back  to  heave  themselves  anew. 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS     123 

That  night  sleep  dropped  not  from  the  dreary  skies, 
Nor  could  the  prowess  of  our  chiefs  oppose 
That  sea  of  raging  men.     But  what  were  they  ? 
Or  what  is  man  opposed  to  thee  ?     His  hopes 
Are  wrecks,  himself  the  drowning,  drifting  weed 
That  wanders  on  thy  waters  ;   such  as  I 
Who  see  the  scattered  remnants  of  my  fleet, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  he  sailed, 
Each  glad  ship  shining  like  the  morning  star 
With  promise  for  the  world.     Oh  !   such  as  I 
Thus  darkly  drifting  on  the  drowning  waves. 
O  God  of  waters  !    'tis  a  dreadful  thing 
To  suffer  for  an  evil  unrevealed  ; 
Dreadful  it  is  to  hear  the  perishing  cry 
Of  those  we  love  ;  the  silence  that  succeeds 
How  dreadful !     Still  my  trust  is  fixed  on  thee 
For  those  that  still  remain  and  for  myself. 
And  if  I  hear  thy  swift  foam-snorting  steeds 
Drawing  thy  dusky  chariot,  as  in 
The  pauses  of  the  wind  I  seem  to  hear, 
Deaf  thou  art  not  to  my  entreating  prayer ! 
Haste  then  to  give  us  help,  for  closely  now 
Crete  whispers  in  my  ears,  and  all  my  blood 
Runs  keen  and  warm  for  home,  and  I  have  yearn- 
ing, 
Such  yearning  as  I  never  felt  before, 
To  see  again  my  wife,  my  little  son, 
My  Queen,  my  pretty  nursling  of  five  years, 


124        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

The  darling  of  my  hopes,  our  dearest  pledge 
Of  marriage,  and  our  brightest  prize  of  love, 
Whose  parting  cry  rings  clearest  in  my  heart. 

0  lay  this  horror,  much-offended  God  ! 
And  making  all  as  fair  and  firm  as  when 
We  trusted  to  thy  mighty  depths  of  old, — 

1  vow  to  sacrifice  the  first  whom  Zeus 

Shall  prompt  to  hail  us  from  the  white  seashore 
And  welcome  our  return  to  royal  Crete, 
An  offering,  Poseidon,  unto  thee  ! 

Amid  the  din  of  elemental  strife, 
No  voice  may  pierce  but  Deity  supreme  : 
And  Deity  supreme  alone  can  hear, 
Above  the  hurricane's  discordant  shrieks, 
The  cry  of  agonized  humanity. 

Not  unappeased  was  He  who  smites  the  waves, 
When  to  his  stormy  ears  the  warrior's  vow 
Entered,  and  from  his  foamy  pinnacle 
Tumultuous,  he  beheld  the  prostrate  form, 
And  knew  the  mighty  heart.     Awhile  he  gazed, 
As  doubtful  of  his  purpose,  and  the  storm, 
Conscious  of  that  divine  debate,  withheld 
Its  fierce  emotion,  in  the  luminous  gloom 
Of  those  so  dark  irradiating  eyes  ! 
Beneath  whose  wavering  lustre  shone  revealed 
The  tumult  of  the  purpling  deeps,  and  all 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS  12: 

The  throbbing  of  the  tempest,  as  it  paused, 
Slowly  subsiding,  seeming  to  await 
The  sudden  signal,  as  a  faithful  hound 
Pants  with  the  forepaws  stretched  before  its  nose. 
Athwart  the  greensward,  after  an  eager  chase  ; 
Its  hot  tongue  thrust  to  cool,  its  foamy  jaws 
Open  to  let  the  swift  breath  come  and  go, 
Its  quick  interrogating  eyes  fixed  keen 
Upon  the  huntsman's  countenance,  and  ever 
Lashing  its  sharp  impatient  tail  with  haste  : 
Prompt  at  the  slightest  sign  to  scour  away, 
And  hang  itself  afresh  by  the  bleeding  fangs, 
Upon  the  neck  of  some  death-singled  stag, 
Whose  royal  antlers,  eyes,  and  stumbling  knees, 
Will  supplicate  the  gods  in  mute  despair. 
This  time  not  mute,  nor  yet  in  vain  this  time  ! 
For  still  the  burden  of  the  earnest  voice 
And  all  the  vivid  glories  it  revoked, 
Sank  in  the  god,  with  that  absorbed  suspense 
Felt  only  by  the  Olympians,  whose  minds 
Unbounded  like  our  mortal  brain,  perceive 
All  things  complete,  the  end,  the  aim  of  all ; 
To  whom  the  crown  and  consequence  of  deeds 
Are  ever  present  with  the  deed  itself. 

And  now  the  pouring  surges,  vast  and  smooth, 
Grew  weary  of  restraint,  and  heaved  themselves 
Headlong  beneath  him,  breaking  at  his  feet 


126        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

With  wild  importunate  cries  and  angry  wail ; 
Like  crowds  that  shout  for  bread  and  hunger  more. 
And  now  the  surface  of  their  rolling  backs 
Was  ridged  with  foam-topt  furrows,  rising  high 
And  dashing  wildly,  like  to  fiery  steeds, 
Fresh  from  the  Thracian  or  Thessalian  plains, 
High-blooded  mares  just  tempering  to  the  bit, 
Whose  manes  at  full-speed  stream  upon  the  winds, 
And  in  whose  delicate  nostrils  when  the  gust 
Breathes  of  their  native  plains,  they  ramp  and  rear, 
Frothing  the  curb,  and  bounding  from  the  earth, 
As  though  the  Sun-god's  chariot  alone 
Were  fit  to  follow  in  their  flashing  track. 
Anon  with  gathering  stature  to  the  height 
Of  those  colossal  giants,  doomed  long  since 
To  torturous  grief  and  penance,  that  assailed 
The   sky-throned  courts   of  Zeus,   and  climbing, 

dared 
For  once  in  a  world  the  Olympic  wrath,  and  braved 
The  electric  spirit  which  from  his  clenching  hand 
Pierces  the  dark- veined  earth,  and  with  a  touch 
Is  death  to  mortals,  fearfully  they  grew  1 
And  with  like  purpose  of  audacity, 
Threatened  Titanic  fury  to  the  god. 
Such  was  the  agitation  of  the  sea 
Beneath  Poseidon's  thought-revolving  brows, 
Storming  for  signal.     But  no  signal  came. 
And  as  when  men  who  congregate  to  hear 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS     127 

Some  proclamation  from  the  regal  fount 

With  eager  questioning  and  anxious  phrase, 

Betray  the  expectation  of  their  hearts, 

Till  after  many  hours  of  fretful  sloth, 

Weary  with  much  delay,  they  hold  discourse 

In  sullen  groups  and  cloudy  masses,  stirred 

With  rage  irresolute  and  whispering  plot, 

Known  more  by  indication  than  by  word, 

And  understood  alone  by  those  whose  minds 

Participate  ; — even  so  the  restless  waves 

Began  to  lose  all  sense  of  servitude, 

And  worked  with  rebel  passions,  bursting,  now 

To  right,  and  now  to  left,  but  evermore 

Subdued  with  influence,  and  controlled  with  dread 

Of  that  inviolate  Authority. 

Then,  swiftly  as  he  mused,  the  impetuous  God 
Seized  on  the  pausing  reins,  his  coursers  plunged, 
His  brows  resumed  the  grandeur  of  their  ire ; 
Throughout  his  vast  divinity  the  deeps 
Concurrent  thrilled  with  action,  and  away, 
As  sweeps  a  thunder-cloud  across  the  sky 
In  harvest-time,  preluded  by  dull  blasts  ; 
Or  some  black-visaged  whirlwind,  whose  wide  folds 
Rush,  wrestling  on  with  all  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
Darkling  he  hurried,  and  his  distant  voice, 
Not  softened  by  delay,  was  heard  in  tones 
Distinctly  terrible,  still  following  up 


128         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Its  rapid  utterance  of  tremendous  wrath 
With  hoarse  reverberations  ;   like  the  roar 
Of  lions  when  they  hunger,  and  awake 
The  sullen  echoes  from  their  forest  sleep, 
To  speed  the  ravenous  noise  from  hill  to  hill 
And  startle  victims  ;   but  more  awful,  He, 
Scudding  across  the  hills  that  rise  and  sink, 
With  foam,  and  splash,  and  cataracts  of  spray, 
Clothed  in  majestic  splendour  ;   girt  about 
With  sea-gods  and  swift  creatures  of  the  sea  ; 
Their  briny  eyes  blind  with  the  showering  drops  ; 
Their  stormy  locks,  salt  tongues,  and  scaly  backs, 
Quivering  in  harmony  with  the  tempest,  fierce 
And  eager  with  tempestuous  delight ; — 
He  like  a  moving  rock  above  them  all 
Solemnly  towering  while  fitful  gleams 
Brake  from  his  dense  black  forehead,  which  dis- 

play'd 
The  enduring  chiefs  as  their  distracted  fleets, 
Tossed,  toiling  with  the  waters,  climbing  high, 
And  plunging  downward  with  determined  beaks, 
In  lurid  anguish  ;   but  the  Cretan  king 
And  all  his  crew  were  'ware  of  under-tides, 
That  for  the  groaning  vessel  made  a  path, 
On  which  the  impending  and  precipitous  waves 
Fell  not,  nor  suck'd  to  their  abysmal  gorge. 

O,  happy  they  to  feel  the  mighty  God, 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS     129 

Without  his  whelming  presence  near  :   to  feel 
Safety  and  sweet  relief  from  such  despair, 
And  gushing  of  their  weary  hopes  once  more 
Within  their  fond  warm  hearts,  tired  limbs,  and  eyes 
Heavy  with  much  fatigue  and  want  of  sleep  ! 
Prayers  did  not  lack  ;   like  mountain  springs  they 

came, 
After  the  earth  has  drunk  the  drenching  rains, 
And  throws  her  fresh-born  jets  into  the  sun 
With  joyous  sparkles  ; — for  there  needed  not 
Evidence  more  serene  of  instant  grace, 
Immortal  mercy  !   and  the  sense  which  follows 
Divine  interposition,  when  the  shock 
Of  danger  hath  been  thwarted  by  the  Gods, 
Visibly,  and  through  supplication  deep, — 
Rose  in  them,  chiefly  in  the  royal  mind 
Of  him  whose  interceding  vow  had  saved. 

Tears  from  that  great  heroic  soul  sprang  up  ; 

Not  painful  as  in  grief,  nor  smarting  keen 

With  shame  of  weeping ;     but  calm,   fresh,   and 

sweet  ; 
Such  as  in  lofty  spirits  rise,  and  wed 
The  nature  of  the  woman  to  the  man  ; 
A  sight  most  lovely  to  the  Gods  !     They  fell 
Like  showers  of  starlight  from  his  stedfast  eyes, 
As  ever  towards  the  prow  he  gazed,  nor  moved 
One  muscle,  with  firm  lips  and  level  lids, 


130         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Motionless  ;   while  the  winds  sang  in  his  ears, 
And  took  the  length  of  his  brown  hair  in  streams 
Behind  him.     Thus  the  hours  passed,  and  the  oars 
Plied  without  pause,  and  nothing  but  the  sound 
Of  the  dull  rowlocks  and  still  watery  sough, 
Far  off,  the  carnage  of  the  storm,  was  heard. 
For  nothing  spake  the  mariners  in  their  toil, 
And  all  the  captains  of  the  war  were  dumb  ; 
Too  much  oppressed  with  wonder,  too  much  thrilled 
By  their  great  chieftain's  silence,  to  disturb 
Such  meditation  with  poor  human  speech. 
Meantime  the  moon  through  slips  of  driving  cloud 
Came  forth,  and  glanced  athwart  the  seas  a  path 
Of  dusky  splendour,  like  the  Hadean  brows, 
When  with  Elysian  passion  they  behold 
Persephone's  complacent  hueless  cheeks. 
Soon  gathering  strength  and  lustre,  as  a  ship 
That  swims  into  some  blue  and  open  bay 
With  bright  full-bosomed  sails,  the  radiant  car 
Of  Artemis  advanced,  and  on  the  waves 
Sparkled  like  arrows  from  her  silver  bow, 
The  keenness  of  her  pure  and  tender  gaze. 

Then,  slowly,  one  by  one  the  chiefs  sought  rest ; 
The  watches  being  set,  and  men  to  relieve 
The  rowers  at  midseason.     Fair  it  was 
To  see  them  as  they  lay  !     Some  up  the  prow, 
Some  round  the  helm,  in  open-handed  sleep  ; 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS      131 

With  casques  unloosed,  and  bucklers  put  aside  ; 
The  ten  years'  tale  of  war  upon  their  cheeks, 
Where  clung  the  salt  wet  locks,  and  on  their  breasts 
Beards,  the  thick  growth  of  many  a  proud  cam- 
paign ; 
And  on  their  brows  the  bright  invisible  crown 
Victory  sheds  from  her  own  radiant  form, 
As  o'er  her  favourites'  heads  she  sings  and  soars. 
But  dreams  came  not  so  calmly,  as  around 
Turbulent  shores  wild  waves  and  swamping  surf 
Prevail,  while  seaward,  on  the  tranquil  deeps, 
Reign  placid  surfaces  and  solemn  peace, 
So  from  the  troubled  strands  of  memory,  they 
Launched  and  were  tossed,  long  ere  they  found  the 

tides 
That  lead  to  the  gentle  bosoms  of  pure  rest. 
And  like  to  one  who  from  a  ghostly  watch 
In  a  lone  house  where  murder  hath  been  done, 
And  secret  violations,  pale  with  stealth 
Emerges,  staggering  on  the  first  chill  gust 
Wherewith  the  morning  greets  him,  feeling  not 
Its  balmy  freshness  on  his  bloodless  cheek,— 
But  swift  to  hide  his  midnight  face  afar, 
'Mongst  the  old  woods  and  timid-glancing  flowers 
Hastens,  till  on  the  fresh  reviving  breasts 
Of  tender  Dryads  folded,  he  forgets 
The  pallid  witness  of  those  nameless  things, 
In  renovated  senses  lapt,  and  joins 


132        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

The  full,  keen  joyance  of  the  day,  so  they 

From  sights  and  sounds  of  battle  smeared  with 

blood, 
And  shrieking  souls  on  Acheron's  bleak  tides, 
And  wail  of  execrating  kindred,  slid 
Into  oblivious  slumber  and  a  sense 
Of  satiate  deliciousness  complete. 

Leave  them,  O  Muse,  in  that  so  happy  sleep  ! 
Leave  them  to  reap  the  harvest  of  their  toil, 
While  fast  in  moonlight  the  glad  vessel  glides, 
As  if  instinctive  to  its  forest  home. 
O  Muse,  that  in  all  sorrows  and  all  joys, 
Rapturous  bliss  and  suffering  divine, 
Dwellest  with  equal  fervour,  in  the  calm 
Of  thy  serene  philosophy,  albeit 
Thy  gentle  nature  is  of  joy  alone, 
And  loves  the  pipings  of  the  happy  fields, 
Better  than  all  the  great  parade  and  pomp, 
Which  forms  the  train  of  heroes  and  of  kings, 
And  sows,  too  frequently,  the  tragic  seeds 
That  choke  with  sobs  thy  singing, — turn  away 
Thy  lustrous  eyes  back  to  the  oath-bound  man  ! 
For  as  a  shepherd  stands  above  his  flock, 
The  lofty  figure  of  the  king  is  seen, 
Standing  above  his  warriors  as  they  sleep  : 
And  still  as  from  a  rock  grey  waters  gush, 
While  still  the  rock  is  passionless  and  dark, 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  IDOMENEUS     133 

Nor  moves  one  feature  of  its  giant  face, 
The  tears  fall  from  his  eyes,  and  he  stirs  not. 

And  O,  bright  Muse  !  forget  not  thou  to  fold 
In  thy  prophetic  sympathy,  the  thought 
Of  him  whose  destiny  has  heard  its  doom  : 
The  Sacrifice  thro'  whom  the  ship  is  saved. 
Haply  that  Sacrifice  is  sleeping  now, 
And  dreams  of  glad  to-morrows.     Haply  now, 
His  hopes  are  keenest,  and  his  fervent  blood 
Richest  with  youth,  and  love,  and  fond  regard  ! 
Round  him  the  circle  of  affections  blooms, 
And  in  some  happy  nest  of  home  he  lives, 
One  name  oft  uttering  in  delighted  ears, 
Mother  !  at  which  the  heart  of  men  are  kin 
With  reverence  and  yearning.     Haply,  too, 
That  other  name,  twin  holy,  twin  revered, 
He  whispers  often  to  the  passing  winds 
That  blow  toward  the  Asiatic  coasts  ; 
For  Crete  has  sent  her  bravest  to  the  war, 
And  multitudes  pressed  forward  to  that  rank, 
Men  with  sad  weeping  wives  and  little  ones. 
That  other  name — O  Father  !  who  art  thou, 
Thus  doomed  to  lose  the  star  of  thy  last  days  ? 
It  may  be  the  sole  flower  of  thy  life, 
And  that  of  all  who  now  look  up  to  thee  ! 
Oh  !  Father,  Father  !  unto  thee  even  now 
Fate  cries  ;   the  future  with  imploring  voice, 


134         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Cries  '  Save  me,'  '  Save  me,'  though  thou  nearest 

not, 
And  Oh  !  thou  Sacrifice,  foredoom  id  by  Zeus. 
Even  now  the  dark  inexorable  deed 
Is  dealing  its  relentless  stroke,  and  vain 
Are  prayers,  and  tears,  and  struggles,  and  despair  ! 
The  mother's  tears,  the  nation's  stormful  grief, 
The  people's  indignation  and  revenge  ! 
Vain  the  last  childlike  pleading  voice  for  life, 
The  quick  resolve,  the  young  heroic  brow, 
So  like,  so  like,  and  vainly  beautiful ! 
Oh  !  whosoe'er  ye  are  the  Muse  says  not, 
And  sees  not,  but  the  gods  look  down  on  both. 


THE  LONGEST  DAY  135 


THE  LONGEST  DAY 

On  yonder  hills  soft  twilight  dwells 

And  Hesper  burns  where  sunset  dies, 
Moist  and  chill  the  woodland  smells 

From  the  fern-covered  hollows  uprise  ; 

Darkness  drops  not  from  the  skies, 
But  shadows  of  darkness  are  flung  o'er  the  vale 

From  the  boughs  of  the  chestnut,  the  oak,  and 
the  elm, 
While  night  in  yon  lines  of  eastern  pines 

Preserves  alone  her  inviolate  realm 
Against  the  twilight  pale. 

Say,  then  say,  what  is  this  day, 

That  it  lingers  thus  with  half-closed  eyes, 
When  the  sunset  is  quenched  and  the  orient  ray 

Of  the  roseate  moon  doth  rise, 

Like  a  midnight  sun  o'er  the  skies  ! 
'Tis  the  longest,  the  longest  of  all  the  glad  year, 

The  longest  in  life  and  the  fairest  in  hue, 
When  day  and  night,  in  bridal  light, 

Mingle  their  beings  beneath  the  sweet  blue, 
And  bless  the  balmy  air  ! 


136         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Upward  to  this  starry  height 

The  culminating  seasons  rolled  ; 
On  one  slope  green  with  spring  delight, 

The  other  with  harvest  gold, 

And  treasures  of  Autumn  untold  : 
And  on  this  highest  throne  of  the  midsummer  now 

The  waning  but  deathless  day  doth  dream, 
With  a  rapturous  grace,  as  tho'  from  the  face 

Of  the  unveiled  infinity,  lo,  a  far  beam 

Had  fall'n  on  her  dim-flushed  brow  ! 

Prolong,  prolong  that  tide  of  song 

O  leafy  nightingale  and  thrush  ! 
Still  earnest-throated  blackcap  throng 

The  woods  with  that  emulous  gush 

Of  notes  in  tumultuous  rush. 
Ye  summer  souls  raise  up  one  voice  ! 

A  charm  is  afloat  all  over  the  land  ; 
The  ripe  year  doth  fall  to  the  Spirit  of  all, 

Who  blesses  it  with  outstretched  hand, 
Ye  summer  souls  rejoice  ! 


TO  ROBIN  REDBREAST  137 


TO  ROBIN  REDBREAST 

Merrily  'mid  the  faded  leaves, 

O  Robin  of  the  bright  redbreast ! 
Cheerily  over  the  Autumn  eaves, 

Thy  note  is  heard,  bonny  bird  ; 
Sent  to  cheer  us,  and  kindly  endear  us 
To  what  would  be  a  sorrowful  time 
Without  thee  in  the  weltering  clime  : 
Merry  art  thou  in  the  boughs  of  the  lime, 

While  thy  fadeless  waistcoat  glows  on  thy 

breast, 
In  Autumn's  reddest  livery  drest. 

A  merry  song,  a  cheery  song  ! 

In  the  boughs  above,  on  the  sward  below, 
Chirping  and  singing  the  live  day  long, 

While  the  maple  in  grief  sheds  its  fiery  leaf, 
And  all  the  trees  waning,  with  bitter  complaining, 

Chestnut,  and  elm,  and  sycamore, 

Catch  the  wild  gust  in  their  arms,  and  roar 

Like  the  sea  on  a  stormy  shore, 


138         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Till  wailfully  they  let  it  go, 
And  weep  themselves  naked  and  weary 
with  woe. 

Merrily,  cheerily,  joyously  still 

Pours  out  the  crimson-crested  tide. 
The  set  of  the  season  burns  bright  on  the  hill, 

Where  the  foliage  dead  falls  yellow  and  red, 
Picturing  vainly,  but  foretelling  plainly 

The  wealth  of  cottage  warmth  that  comes 
When  the  frost  gleams  and  the  blood  numbs, 
And  then,  bonny  Robin,  I  '11  spread  thee  out 
crumbs 
In  my  garden  porch  for  thy  redbreast 

pride, 
The  song  and  the  ensign  of  dear  fireside. 


SONG  139 


SONG 

The  daisy  now  is  out  upon  the  green  ; 

And  in  the  grassy  lanes 

The  child  of  April  rains, 
The  sweet  fresh-hearted  violet  is  smelt  and  loved 
unseen. 

Along  the  brooks  and  meads,  the  daffodil 

Its  yellow  richness  spreads, 

And  by  the  fountain-heads 
Of  rivers,  cowslips  cluster  round,  and  over  every 
hill. 

The  crocus  and  the  primrose  may  have  gone, 

The  snowdrop  may  be  low, 

But  soon  the  purple  glow 
Of  hyacinths  will  fill  the  copse,  and  lilies  watch  the 
dawn. 

And  in  the  sweetness  of  the  budding  year, 

The  cuckoo's  woodland  call, 

The  skylark  over  all, 
And  then  at  eve,  the  nightingale,  is  doubly  sweet 
and  dear. 


140         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

My  soul  is  singing  with  the  happy  birds, 

And  all  my  human  powers 

Are  blooming  with  the  flowers, 
My  foot  is  on  the  fields  and  downs,  among  the 
flocks  and  herds. 

Deep  in  the  forest  where  the  foliage  droops, 

I  wander,  fill'd  with  joy. 

Again  as  when  a  boy, 
The  sunny  vistas  tempt  me  on  with  dim  delicious 
hopes. 

The  sunny  vistas,  dim  with  hanging  shade, 

And  old  romantic  haze  : — 

Again  as  in  past  days, 
The  spirit  of  immortal  Spring  doth  every  sense 
pervade. 

Oh  !  do  not  say  that  this  will  ever  cease  ; — 

This  joy  of  woods  and  fields, 

This  youth  that  nature  yields, 
Will  never  speak  to  me  in  vain,  tho'  soundly  rapt 
in  peace. 


SUNRISE  141 


SUNRISE 

The  clouds  are  withdrawn 
And  their  thin-rippled  mist, 
That  stream'd  o'er  the  lawn 
To  the  drowsy-eyed  west. 
Cold  and  grey 
They  slept  in  the  way, 
And  shrank  from  the  ray 
Of  the  chariot  East : 
But  now  they  are  gone 
And  the  bounding  light 
Leaps  thro'  the  bars 
Of  doubtful  dawn  ; 
Blinding  the  stars, 
And  blessing  the  sight ; 
Shedding  delight 
On  all  below  ; 
Glimmering  fields, 
And  wakening  wealds, 
And  rising  lark, 
And  meadows  dark, 
And  idle  rills, 


142         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  labouring  mills, 

And  far-distant  hills 

Of  the  fawn  and  the  doe. 

The  sun  is  cheered 

And  his  path  is  cleared, 

As  he  steps  to  the  air 

From  his  emerald  cave, 

His  heel  in  the  wave, 

Most  bright  and  bare  ; 

In  the  tide  of  the  sky 

His  radiant  hair  ; 

From  his  temples  fair, 

Blown  back  on  high  ; 

As  forward  he  bends, 

And  upward  ascends, 

Timely  and  true, 

To  the  breast  of  the  blue  ; 

His  warm  red  lips 

Kissing  the  dew, 

Which  sweetened  drips 

On  his  flower  cupholders  ; 

Every  hue 

From  his  gleaming  shoulders 

Shining  anew 

With  colour  sky-born, 

As  it  washes  and  dips 

In  the  pride  of  the  morn. 

Robes  of  azure, 


SUNRISE  143 

Fringed  with  amber, 

Fold  upon  fold 

Of  purple  and  gold, 

Vine-leaf  bloom, 

And  the  grape's  ripe  gloom, 

When  season  deep 

In  noontide  leisure, 

With  clustering  heap 

The  tendrils  clamber, 

Full  in  the  face 

Of  his  hot  embrace, 

Fill'd  with  the  gleams 

Of  his  firmest  beams. 

Autumn  flushes, 

Roseate  blushes, 

Vermeil  tinges, 

Violet  fringes, 

Every  hue 

Of  his  flower  cupholders, 

O'er  the  clear  ether 

Mingled  together, 

Shining  anew 

From  his  gleaming  shoulders  ! 

Circling  about 

In  a  coronal  rout, 

And  floating  behind, 

The  way  of  the  wind, 

As  forward  he  bends, 


144         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  upward  ascends, 

Timely  and  true, 

To  the  breast  of  the  blue. 

His  bright  neck  curved, 

His  clear  limbs  nerved, 

Diamond  keen 

On  his  front  serene, 

While  each  white  arm  strains 

To  the  racing  reins, 

As  plunging,  eyes  flashing, 

Dripping,  and  dashing, 

His  steeds  triple  grown, 

Rear  up  to  his  throne, 

Ruffling  the  rest 

Of  the  sea's  blue  breast, 

From  his  flooding,  flaming  crimson  crest  ! 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE  145 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE 


The  spirit  of  Romance  dies  not  to  those 
Who  hold  a  kindred  spirit  in  their  souls  : 
Even  as  the  odorous  life  within  the  rose 
Lives  in  the  scattered  leaflets  and  controls 
Mysterious  adoration,  so  there  glows 
Above  dead  things  a  thing  that  cannot  die  ; 
Faint  as  the  glimmer  of  a  tearful  eye, 
Ere  the  orb  fills  and  all  the  sorrow  flows. 
Beauty  renews  itself  in  many  ways  ; 
The  flower  is  fading  while  the  new  bud  blows  ; 
And  this  dear  land  as  true  a  symbol  shows, 
While  o'er  it  like  a  mellow  sunset  strays 
The  legendary  splendour  of  old  days, 
Invisible,  inviolate  repose. 

II 

About  a  mile  behind  the  viny  banks, 
How  sweet  it  was,  upon  a  sloping  green, 
Sunspread,    and    shaded    with    a    branching 


146        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

To    lie    in    peace   half-murmuring   words    of 

thanks ! 
To  see  the  mountains  on  each  other  climb, 
With  spaces  for  rich  meadows  flowery  bright ; 
The  winding  river  freshening  the  sight 
At  intervals,  the  trees  in  leafy  prime  ; 
The  distant  village-roofs  of  blue  and  white, 
With  intersections  of  quaint-fashioned  beams 
All  slanting  crosswise,  and  the  feudal  gleams 
Of  ruined  turrets,  barren  in  the  light ; — 
To  watch  the  changing  clouds,  like  clime  in 
clime, 
Oh  !  sweet  to  lie  and  bless  the  luxury  of  time. 

Ill 

Fresh  blows  the  early  breeze,  our  sail  is  full ; 
A  merry  morning  and  a  mighty  tide. 
Cheerily  O  !  and  past  St.  Goar  we  glide, 
Half  hid  in  misty  dawn  and  mountain  cool. 
The  river  is  our  own  !  and  now  the  sun 
In  saffron  clothes  the  warming  atmosphere  ; 
The  sky  lifts  up  her  white  veil  like  a  nun, 
And    looks    upon    the    landscape    blue    and 

clear  ; — 
The  lark  is  up  ;   the  hills,  the  vines  in  sight ; 
The  river  broadens  with  his  waking  bliss 
And  throws  up  islands  to  behold  the  light ; 
Voices  begin  to  rise,  all  hues  to  kiss  ; — 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE  147 

Was  ever  such  a  happy  morn  as  this  ! 
Birds  sing,  we  shout,  flowers  breathe,  trees  shine 
with  one  delight  ! 

IV 

Between  the  two  white  breasts  of  her  we  love, 
A  dewy  blushing  rose  will  sometimes  spring  ; 
Thus  Nonnenwerth  like  an  enchanted  thing 
Rises  mid-stream  the  crystal  depths  above. 
On  either  side  the  waters  heave  and  swell, 
But  all  is  calm  within  the  little  Isle ; 
Content  it  is  to  give  its  holy  smile, 
And  bless  with  peace  the  lives  that  in  it  dwell. 
Most  dear  on  the  dark  grass  beneath  its  bower 
Of  kindred  trees  embracing  branch  and  bough, 
To  dream  of  fairy  foot  and  sudden  flower  ; 
Or  haply  with  a  twilight  on  the  brow, 
To  muse  upon  the  legendary  hour, 
And  Roland's  lonely  love  and  Hildegard's  sad  vow. 


Hark  !  how  the  bitter  winter  breezes  blow 
Round  the  sharp  rocks  and  o'er  the  half-lifted 

wave, 
While  all  the  rocky  woodland  branches  rave 
Shrill  with  the  piercing  cold,  and  every  cave, 
Along  the  icy  water-margin  low, 
Rings  bubbling  with  the  whirling  overflow  ; 


148         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  sharp  the  echoes  answer  distant  cries 
Of  dawning  daylight  and  the  dim  sunrise, 
And  the  gloom-coloured  clouds  that  stain  the 

skies 
With  pictures  of  a  warmth,  and  frozen  glow 
Spread  over  endless  fields  of  sheeted  snow  ; 
And  white  untrodden  mountains  shining  cold, 
And  muffled  footpaths  winding  thro'  the  wold, 
O'er  which  those  wintry  gusts  cease  not  to  howl 

and  blow. 

VI 

Rare  is  the  loveliness  of  slow  decay  ! 
With  youth  and  beauty  all  must  be  desired, 
But  'tis  the  charm  of  things  long  past  away, 
They  leave,  alone,  the  light  they  have  inspired  : 
The  calmness  of  a  picture  ;   Memory  now 
Is  the  sole  life  among  the  ruins  grey, 
And  like  a  phantom  in  fantastic  play, 
She  wanders  with  rank  weeds  stuck  on  her 

brow, 
Over  grass-hidden  caves  and  turret-tops, 
Herself  almost  as  tottering  as  they  ; 
While,  to  the  steps  of  Time,  her  latest  props 
Fall  stone  by  stone,  and  in  the  Sun's  hot  ray 
All  that  remains  stands  up  in  rugged  pride, 
And  bridal  vines  drink  in  his  juices  on  each  side. 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  149 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

O  nightingale  !  how  hast  thou  learnt 

The  note  of  the  nested  dove  ? 
While  under  thy  bower  the  fern  hangs  burnt 

And  no  cloud  hovers  above  ! 
Rich  July  has  many  a  sky 
With  splendour  dim,  that  thou  mightst  hymn, 
And  make  rejoice  with  thy  wondrous  voice, 

And  the  thrill  of  thy  wild  pervading  tone  ! 
But  instead  of  towoo,  thou  hast  learnt  to  coo  : 
Thy  song  is  mute  at  the  mellowing  fruit, 
And  the  dirge  of  the  flowers  is  sung  by  the 
hours 

In  silence  and  twilight  alone. 

O  nightingale  !  'tis  this,  'tis  this 

That  makes  thee  mock  the  dove  ! 
That  thou  hast  past  thy  marriage  bliss, 

To  know  a  parent's  love. 
The  waves  of  fern  may  fade  and  burn, 
The  grasses  may  fall,  the  flowers  and  all, 
And  the  pine-smells  o'er  the  oak  dells 


150         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Float  on  their  drowsy  and  odorous  wings, 
But  thou  wilt  do  nothing  but  coo, 
Brimming  the  nest  with  thy  brooding  breast, 
'Midst  that  young  throng  of  future  song, 

Round  whom  the  Future  sings  ! 


POEMS  FROM  THE  VOLUME 
ENTITLED  'MODERN  LOVE' 

(FIRST  EDITION) 


TO  ROBIN  REDBREAST  137 


TO  ROBIN  REDBREAST 

Merrily  'mid  the  faded  leaves, 

O  Robin  of  the  bright  redbreast ! 
Cheerily  over  the  Autumn  eaves, 

Thy  note  is  heard,  bonny  bird  ; 
Sent  to  cheer  us,  and  kindly  endear  us 
To  what  would  be  a  sorrowful  time 
Without  thee  in  the  weltering  clime  : 
Merry  art  thou  in  the  boughs  of  the  lime, 

While  thy  fadeless  waistcoat  glows  on  thy 

breast, 
In  Autumn's  reddest  livery  drest. 

A  merry  song,  a  cheery  song  ! 

In  the  boughs  above,  on  the  sward  below, 
Chirping  and  singing  the  live  day  long, 

While  the  maple  in  grief  sheds  its  fiery  leaf, 
And  all  the  trees  waning,  with  bitter  complaining, 

Chestnut,  and  elm,  and  sycamore, 

Catch  the  wild  gust  in  their  arms,  and  roar 

Like  the  sea  on  a  stormy  shore, 


138         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Till  wailfully  they  let  it  go, 
And  weep  themselves  naked  and  weary 
with  woe. 

Merrily,  cheerily,  joyously  still 

Pours  out  the  crimson-crested  tide. 
The  set  of  the  season  burns  bright  on  the  hill, 

Where  the  foliage  dead  falls  yellow  and  red, 
Picturing  vainly,  but  foretelling  plainly 

The  wealth  of  cottage  warmth  that  comes 
WThen  the  frost  gleams  and  the  blood  numbs, 
And  then,  bonny  Robin,  I  '11  spread  thee  out 
crumbs 
In  my  garden  porch  for  thy  redbreast 

pride, 
The  song  and  the  ensign  of  dear  fireside, 


SONG  139 


SONG 

The  daisy  now  is  out  upon  the  green ; 

And  in  the  grassy  lanes 

The  child  of  April  rains, 
The  sweet  fresh-hearted  violet  is  smelt  and  loved 


Along  the  brooks  and  meads,  the  daffodil 

Its  yellow  richness  spreads, 

And  by  the  fountain-heads 
Of  rivers,  cowslips  cluster  round,  and  over  every 
hill. 

The  crocus  and  the  primrose  may  have  gone, 

The  snowdrop  may  be  low, 

But  soon  the  purple  glow 
Of  hyacinths  will  fill  the  copse,  and  lilies  watch  the 
dawn. 

And  in  the  sweetness  of  the  budding  year, 

The  cuckoo's  woodland  call, 

The  skylark  over  all, 
And  then  at  eve,  the  nightingale,  is  doubly  sweet 
and  dear. 


140         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

My  soul  is  singing  with  the  happy  birds, 

And  all  my  human  powers 

Are  blooming  with  the  flowers, 
My  foot  is  on  the  fields  and  downs,  among  the 
flocks  and  herds. 

Deep  in  the  forest  where  the  foliage  droops, 

I  wander,  filPd  with  joy. 

Again  as  when  a  boy, 
The  sunny  vistas  tempt  me  on  with  dim  delicious 
hopes. 

The  sunny  vistas,  dim  with  hanging  shade, 

And  old  romantic  haze  : — 

Again  as  in  past  days, 
The  spirit  of  immortal  Spring  doth  every  sense 
pervade. 

Oh  !  do  not  say  that  this  will  ever  cease  ; — 

This  joy  of  woods  and  fields, 

This  youth  that  nature  yields, 
Will  never  speak  to  me  in  vain,  tho'  soundly  rapt 
in  peace. 


SUNRISE  141 


SUNRISE 

The  clouds  are  withdrawn 
And  their  thin-rippled  mist, 
That  stream'd  o'er  the  lawn 
To  the  drowsy- eyed  west. 
Cold  and  grey 
They  slept  in  the  way, 
And  shrank  from  the  ray 
Of  the  chariot  East : 
But  now  they  are  gone 
And  the  bounding  light 
Leaps  thro'  the  bars 
Of  doubtful  dawn ; 
Blinding  the  stars, 
And  blessing  the  sight ; 
Shedding  delight 
On  all  below  ; 
Glimmering  fields, 
And  wakening  wealds, 
And  rising  lark, 
And  meadows  dark, 
And  idle  rills, 


142        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  labouring  mills, 

And  far-distant  hills 

Of  the  fawn  and  the  doe. 

The  sun  is  cheered 

And  his  path  is  cleared, 

As  he  steps  to  the  air 

From  his  emerald  cave, 

His  heel  in  the  wave, 

Most  bright  and  bare  ; 

In  the  tide  of  the  sky 

His  radiant  hair ; 

From  his  temples  fair, 

Blown  back  on  high  ; 

As  forward  he  bends, 

And  upward  ascends, 

Timely  and  true, 

To  the  breast  of  the  blue  ; 

His  warm  red  lips 

Kissing  the  dew, 

Which  sweetened  drips 

On  his  flower  cupholders  ; 

Every  hue 

From  his  gleaming  shoulders 

Shining  anew 

With  colour  sky-born, 

As  it  washes  and  dips 

In  the  pride  of  the  morn. 

Robes  of  azure, 


SUNRISE  143 

Fringed  with  amber, 

Fold  upon  fold 

Of  purple  and  gold, 

Vine-leaf  bloom, 

And  the  grape's  ripe  gloom, 

When  season  deep 

In  noontide  leisure, 

With  clustering  heap 

The  tendrils  clamber, 

Full  in  the  face 

Of  his  hot  embrace, 

Fill'd  with  the  gleams 

Of  his  firmest  beams. 

Autumn  flushes, 

Roseate  blushes, 

Vermeil  tinges, 

Violet  fringes, 

Every  hue 

Of  his  flower  cupholders, 

O'er  the  clear  ether 

Mingled  together, 

Shining  anew 

From  his  gleaming  shoulders  ! 

Circling  about 

In  a  coronal  rout, 

And  floating  behind, 

The  way  of  the  wind, 

As  forward  he  bends, 


144         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  upward  ascends, 

Timely  and  true, 

To  the  breast  of  the  blue. 

His  bright  neck  curved, 

His  clear  limbs  nerved, 

Diamond  keen 

On  his  front  serene, 

While  each  white  arm  strains 

To  the  racing  reins, 

As  plunging,  eyes  flashing, 

Dripping,  and  dashing, 

His  steeds  triple  grown, 

Rear  up  to  his  throne, 

Ruffling  the  rest 

Of  the  sea's  blue  breast, 

From  his  flooding,  flaming  crimson  crest ! 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE  145 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE 


The  spirit  of  Romance  dies  not  to  those 
Who  hold  a  kindred  spirit  in  their  souls  : 
Even  as  the  odorous  life  within  the  rose 
Lives  in  the  scattered  leaflets  and  controls 
Mysterious  adoration,  so  there  glows 
Above  dead  things  a  thing  that  cannot  die  ; 
Faint  as  the  glimmer  of  a  tearful  eye, 
Ere  the  orb  fills  and  all  the  sorrow  flows. 
Beauty  renews  itself  in  many  ways  ; 
The  flower  is  fading  while  the  new  bud  blows  ; 
And  this  dear  land  as  true  a  symbol  shows, 
While  o'er  it  like  a  mellow  sunset  strays 
The  legendary  splendour  of  old  days, 
Invisible,  inviolate  repose. 

II 

About  a  mile  behind  the  viny  banks, 
How  sweet  it  was,  upon  a  sloping  green, 
Sunspread,    and    shaded    with    a    branching 
screen, 

K 


146        POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

To    lie    in    peace    half-murmuring    words    of 

thanks ! 
To  see  the  mountains  on  each  other  climb, 
With  spaces  for  rich  meadows  flowery  bright ; 
The  winding  river  freshening  the  sight 
At  intervals,  the  trees  in  leafy  prime  ; 
The  distant  village-roofs  of  blue  and  white, 
With  intersections  of  quaint-fashioned  beams 
All  slanting  crosswise,  and  the  feudal  gleams 
Of  ruined  turrets,  barren  in  the  light ; — 
To  watch  the  changing  clouds,  like  clime  in 
clime, 
Oh  !  sweet  to  lie  and  bless  the  luxury  of  time. 

Ill 

Fresh  blows  the  early  breeze,  our  sail  is  full ; 
A  merry  morning  and  a  mighty  tide. 
Cheerily  O  !  and  past  St.  Goar  we  glide, 
Half  hid  in  misty  dawn  and  mountain  cool. 
The  river  is  our  own  !  and  now  the  sun 
In  saffron  clothes  the  warming  atmosphere  ; 
The  sky  lifts  up  her  white  veil  like  a  nun, 
And    looks    upon    the    landscape    blue    and 

clear  ; — 
The  lark  is  up  ;   the  hills,  the  vines  in  sight ; 
The  river  broadens  with  his  waking  bliss 
And  throws  up  islands  to  behold  the  light ; 
Voices  begin  to  rise,  all  hues  to  kiss  ; — 


PICTURES  OF  THE  RHINE  147 

Was  ever  such  a  happy  morn  as  this  ! 
Birds  sing,  we  shout,  flowers  breathe,  trees  shine 
with  one  delight ! 

IV 

Between  the  two  white  breasts  of  her  we  love, 
A  dewy  blushing  rose  will  sometimes  spring  ; 
Thus  Nonnenwerth  like  an  enchanted  thing 
Rises  mid- stream  the  crystal  depths  above. 
On  either  side  the  waters  heave  and  swell, 
But  all  is  calm  within  the  little  Isle ; 
Content  it  is  to  give  its  holy  smile, 
And  bless  with  peace  the  lives  that  in  it  dwell. 
Most  dear  on  the  dark  grass  beneath  its  bower 
Of  kindred  trees  embracing  branch  and  bough, 
To  dream  of  fairy  foot  and  sudden  flower ; 
Or  haply  with  a  twilight  on  the  brow, 
To  muse  upon  the  legendary  hour, 
And  Roland's  lonely  love  and  Hildegard's  sad  vow. 


Hark  !  how  the  bitter  winter  breezes  blow 
Round  the  sharp  rocks  and  o'er  the  half-lifted 

wave, 
While  all  the  rocky  woodland  branches  rave 
Shrill  with  the  piercing  cold,  and  every  cave, 
Along  the  icy  water-margin  low, 
Rings  bubbling  with  the  whirling  overflow  ; 


148         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

And  sharp  the  echoes  answer  distant  cries 
Of  dawning  daylight  and  the  dim  sunrise, 
And  the  gloom-coloured  clouds  that  stain  the 

skies 
With  pictures  of  a  warmth,  and  frozen  glow 
Spread  over  endless  fields  of  sheeted  snow  ; 
And  white  untrodden  mountains  shining  cold, 
And  muffled  footpaths  winding  thro'  the  wold, 
O'er  which  those  wintry  gusts  cease  not  to  howl 

and  blow. 

VI 

Rare  is  the  loveliness  of  slow  decay  ! 
With  youth  and  beauty  all  must  be  desired, 
But  'tis  the  charm  of  things  long  past  away, 
They  leave,  alone,  the  light  they  have  inspired  : 
The  calmness  of  a  picture  ;   Memory  now 
Is  the  sole  life  among  the  ruins  grey, 
And  like  a  phantom  in  fantastic  play, 
She  wanders  with  rank  weeds  stuck  on  her 

brow, 
Over  grass-hidden  caves  and  turret-tops, 
Herself  almost  as  tottering  as  they  ; 
While,  to  the  steps  of  Time,  her  latest  props 
Fall  stone  by  stone,  and  in  the  Sun's  hot  ray 
All  that  remains  stands  up  in  rugged  pride, 
And  bridal  vines  drink  in  his  juices  on  each  side. 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  149 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

O  nightingale  !  how  hast  thou  learnt 

The  note  of  the  nested  dove  ? 
While  under  thy  bower  the  fern  hangs  burnt 

And  no  cloud  hovers  above  ! 
Rich  July  has  many  a  sky 
With  splendour  dim,  that  thou  mightst  hymn, 
And  make  rejoice  with  thy  wondrous  voice, 

And  the  thrill  of  thy  wild  pervading  tone  ! 
But  instead  of  towoo,  thou  hast  learnt  to  coo  : 
Thy  song  is  mute  at  the  mellowing  fruit, 
And  the  dirge  of  the  flowers  is  sung  by  the 
hours 

In  silence  and  twilight  alone. 

O  nightingale  !  'tis  this,  'tis  this 

That  makes  thee  mock  the  dove  ! 
That  thou  hast  past  thy  marriage  bliss, 

To  know  a  parent's  love. 
The  waves  of  fern  may  fade  and  burn, 
The  grasses  may  fall,  the  flowers  and  all, 
And  the  pine-smells  o'er  the  oak  dells 


150         POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

Float  on  their  drowsy  and  odorous  wings, 
But  thou  wilt  do  nothing  but  coo, 
Brimming  the  nest  with  thy  brooding  breast, 
'Midst  that  young  throng  of  future  song, 

Round  whom  the  Future  sings  ! 


POEMS  FROM  THE  VOLUME 
ENTITLED  'MODERN  LOVE' 

(FIRST  EDITION) 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN 


'  Heigh,  boys  !  '  cried  Grandfather  Bridgeman. 
'  it  's  time  before  dinner  to-day.' 

He  lifted  the  crumpled  letter,  and  thumped  a  sur- 
prising '  Hurrah  !  ' 

Up  jumped  all  the  echoing  young  ones,  but  John, 
with  the  starch  in  his  throat, 

Said,  '  Father,  before  we  make  noises,  let 's  see  the 
contents  of  the  note.' 

The  old  man  glared  at  him  harshly,  and,  twinkling 
made  answer  :    '  Too  bad  ! 

John  Bridgeman,  I  'm  always  the  whisky,  and  you 
are  the  water,  my  lad  ! ' 


But  soon  it  was  known  thro'  the  house,  and  the 

house  ran  over  for  joy, 
That  news,  good  news,  great  marvels,  had  come 

from  the  soldier  boy  ; 


154   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Young  Tom,  the  luckless  scapegrace,  offshoot  of 
Methodist  John  ; 

His  grandfather's  evening  tale,  whom  the  old  man 
hailed  as  his  son. 

And  the  old  man's  shout  of  pride  was  a  shout  of 
his  victory,  too  ; 

For  he  called  his  affection  a  method  :  the  neigh- 
bours' opinions  he  knew. 

in 

Meantime,  from  the  morning  table,  removing  the 

stout  breakfast  cheer, 
The  drink  of  the  three  generations,  the  milk,  the 

tea,  and  the  beer 
(Alone  in  its  generous  reading  of  pints  stood  the 

Grandfather's  jug), 
The  women  for  sight  of  the  missive  came  pressing 

to  coax  and  to  hug. 
He  scattered  them  quick,  with  a  buss  and  a  smack  ; 

thereupon  he  began 
Diversions  with  John's  little  Sarah  :    on  Sunday, 

the  naughty  old  man  ! 

IV 

Then    messengers    sped    to    the    maltster,    the 

auctioneer,  miller,  and  all 
The  seven  sons  of  the  farmer  who  housed  in  the 

range  of  his  call. 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN    155 

Likewise  the   married   daughters,    three   plentiful 

ladies,  prime  cooks, 
Who  bowed  to  him  while  they  condemned,  in  meek 

hope  to  stand  high  in  his  books. 
'  John's  wife  is  a  fool  at  a  pudding,'  they  said,  and 

the  light  carts  up  hill 
Went  merrily,  flouting  the  Sabbath  :   for  puddings 

well  made  mend  a  will. 


The  day  was  a  van-bird  of  summer  :   the  robin  still 

piped,  but  the  blue, 
As  a  warm  and  dreary  palace  with  voices  of  larks 

ringing  thro', 
Looked  down  as  if  wistfully  eyeing  the  blossoms 

that  fell  from  its  lap  : 
A  day  to  sweeten  the  juices  :   a  day  to  quicken  the 

sap. 
All  round  the  shadowy  orchard  sloped  meadows  in 

gold,  and  the  dear 
Shy  violets  breathed  their  hearts  out :   the  maiden 

breath  of  the  year  1 

VI 

Full  time  there  was  before  dinner  to  bring  fifteen  of 

his  blood, 
To  sit  at  the  old  man's  table  :  they  found  that  the 

dinner  was  good. 


156   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

But  who  was  she  by  the  lilacs  and  pouring  labur- 
nums concealed, 

When  under  the  blossoming  apple  the  chair  of  the 
Grandfather  wheeled  ? 

She  heard  one  little  child  crying,  '  Dear  brave 
Cousin  Tom  !  '  as  it  leapt ; 

Then  murmured  she  :  '  Let  me  spare  them  !  '  and 
passed  round  the  walnuts,  and  wept. 

VII 

Yet  not  from  sight  had  she  slipped  ere  feminine 

eyes  could  detect 
The  figure  of  Mary  Charlworth.     '  It 's  just  what 

we  all  might  expect,' 
Was  uttered:     and:     'Didn't   I  tell   you?'     Of 

Mary  the  rumour  resounds, 
That  she  is  now  her  own  mistress,  and  mistress  of 

five  thousand  pounds. 
'Twas  she,  they  say,  who  cruelly  sent  young  Tom 

to  the  war. 
Miss  Mary,  we  thank  you  now  !     If  you  knew  what 

we  're  thanking  you  for  ! 


But,  '  Have  her  in  :  let  her  hear  it,'  called  Grand- 
father Bridgeman,  elate, 

While  Mary's  black-gloved  fingers  hung  trembling 
with  flight  on  the  gate. 


GRANDFATHER   BRIDGEMAN        15? 

Despite  the  women's  remonstrance,  two  little  ones, 
lighter  than  deer, 

Were  loosed,  and  Mary  imprisoned,  her  whole  face 
white  as  a  tear, 

Came  forward  with  culprit  footsteps.  Her  punish- 
ment was  to  commence  : 

The  pity  in  her  pale  visage  they  read  in  a  different 
sense. 

IX 

1  You  perhaps  may  remember  a  fellow,  Miss  Charl- 

worth,  a  sort  of  black  sheep,' 
The  old  man  turned  his  tongue  to  ironical  utterance 

deep  : 
'  He  came  of  a  Methodist  dad,  so  it  wasn't  his  fault 

if  he  kicked. 
He  earned  a  sad  reputation,  but  Methodists  are 

mortal  strict. 
His  name  was  Tom,  and,  dash  me  !    but  Bridgeman 

I  think  you  might  add  : 
Whatever  he  was,  bear  in  mind  that  he  came  of  a 

Methodist  dad.' 


This  prelude  dismally  lengthened,  till  Mary,  start- 
ing, exclaimed, 

0  A  letter,  Sir,  from  your  grandson  ?  *  '  Tom 
Bridgeman  that  rascal  is  named,' 


158      POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

The  old  man  answered,  and  further,  the  words  that 

sent  Tom  to  the  ranks, 
Repeated  as  words  of  a  person  to  whom  they  all 

owed  mighty  thanks. 
But  Mary  never  blushed  :    with  her  eyes  on  the 

letter,  she  sate, 
And  twice  interrupting  him  faltered,   '  The  date, 

may  I  ask,  Sir,  the  date  ?  ' 

XI 

'  Why,  that 's  what  I  never  look  at  in  a  letter,'  the 
farmer  replied  : 

'  Facts  first  !  and  now  I  '11  be  parson.'  The  Bridge- 
man  women  descried 

A  quiver  on  Mary's  eyebrows.  One  turned,  and 
while  shifting  her  comb, 

Said  low  to  a  sister  :  '  I  'm  certain  she  knows  more 
than  we  about  Tom. 

She  wants  him  now  he  's  a  hero  !  '  The  same, 
resuming  her  place, 

Begged  Mary  to  check  them  the  moment  she  found 
it  a  tedious  case. 


Then  as  a  mastiff  swallows  the  snarling  noises  of 

cats, 
The  voice  of  the  farmer  opened.     *  "  Three  cheers, 

and  off  with  your  hats  !  " 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN    159 

—That 's  Tom.  "  We  've  beaten  them,  Daddy, 
and  tough  work  it  was,  to  be  sure  ! 

A  regular  stand-up  combat :  eight  hours  smelling 
powder  and  gore. 

I  entered  it  Serjeant-Major," — and  now  he  com- 
mands a  salute, 

And  carries  the  flag  of  old  England  !  Heigh  !  see 
him  lift  foes  on  his  foot  1 

XIII 

1  — An  officer  !  ay,  Miss  Charlworth,  he  is,  or  he  is 

so  to  be  ; 
You  '11  own  war  isn't  such  humbug  :  and  Glory 

means  something,  you  see. 
k'  But  don't  say  a  word,"  he  continues,  "  against 

the  brave  French  any  more." 
— That  stopt  me  :    we  '11  now  march  together.     I 

couldn't  read  further  before. 
That  "  brave  French  "   I  couldn't  stomach.     He 

can't  see  their  cunning  to  get 
Us  Britons  to  fight  their  battles,  while  best  half 

the  winnings  they  net  1  ' 

XIV 

The  old  man  sneered,  and  read  forward.     It  was 

of  that  desperate  fight ; — 
The  Muscovite  stole  thro'  the  mist-wreaths  that 

wrapped  the  chill  Inkermann  height, 


160   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  • 

Where  stood  our  silent  outposts  :   old  England  was 

in  them  that  day  ! 
O  sharp  worked  his  ruddy  wrinkles,  as  if  to  the 

breath  of  the  fray 
They  moved  !     He  sat  bareheaded  :    his  long  hair 

over  him  slow, 
Swung  white  as  the  silky  bog-flowers    in   purple 

heath-hollows  that  grow. 

xv 

And  louder  at  Tom's  first  person  :  acute  and  in 

thunder  the  '  I ' 
Invaded  the  ear  with  a  whinny  of  triumph,  that 

seem'd  to  defy 
The  hosts  of  the  world.     All  heated,  what  wonder 

he  little  could  brook 
To  catch  the  sight  of  Mary's  demure  puritanical 

look? 
And  still  as  he  led  the  onslaught,  his  treacherous 

side-shots  he  sent 
At  her  who  was  fighting  a  battle  as  fierce,  and  who 

sat  there  unbent. 

XVI 

'  "  We    stood    in    line,    and    like    hedgehogs    the 

Russians  rolled  under  us  thick. 
They   frightened  me  there." — He  's  no   coward ; 

for  when,  Miss,  they  came  at  the  quick, 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN        161 

The    sight,    he    swears,    was    a    breakfast. — "  My 

stomach  felt  tight  :   in  a  glimpse 
I  saw  you  snoring  at  home  with  the  dear  cuddled- 

up  little  imps. 
And  then  like  the  winter  brickfields  at  midnight, 

hot  fire  lengthened  out. 
Our  fellows  were   just  leashed   bloodhounds  :    no 

heart  of  the  lot  faced  about. 

XVII 

'  "  And  only  that  grumbler,  Bob  Harris,  remarked 

that  we  stood  one  to  ten  : 
'  Ye  fool,'  says  Mick  Grady,  '  just  tell  'em  they 

know  to  compliment  men  !  ' 
And  I  sang  out  your  old  words  :    '  If  the  opposite 

side  isn't  God's, 
Heigh  !  after  you  've  counted  a  dozen,  the  pluckiest 

lads  have  the  odds.' 
Ping-ping  flew  the  enemies'  pepper  :  the  Colonel 

roared,  Forward,  and  we 
Went  at  them.     'Twas  first  like  a  blanket :    and 

then  a  long  plunge  in  the  sea. 


*  "  Well,  now  about  me  and  the  Frenchman  :    it 

happened  I  can't  tell  you  how  : 
And,  Grandfather,  hear,  if  you  love  me,  and  put 

aside  prejudice  now  "  : 


1G2   POEMS  FROM  g  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

He  never  says  "  Grandfather  " — Tom  don't — save 

it  's  a  serious  thing. 
"  Well,  there  were  some  pits  for  the  rifles,  just  dug 

on  our  French-leaning  wing  : 
And  backwards,  and  forwards,  and  backwards  we 

went,  and  at  last  I  was  vexed, 
And  swore  I  would  never  surrender  a  foot  when 

the  Russians  charged  next. 

XIX 

•  "  I  know  that  life  's  worth  keeping." — Ay,  so  it 
is,  lad  ;   so  it  is  ! — 

"  But  my  life  belongs  to  a  woman." — Does  that 
mean  Her  Majesty,  Miss  ? — 

"  These   Russians   came   lumping   and   grinning  : 
they  're  fierce  at  it,  though  they  are  blocks. 

Our  fellows  were  pretty  well  pumped,  and  looked 
sharp  for  the  little  French  cocks. 

Lord,  didn't  we  pray  for  their  crowing  !  when  over 
us,  on  the  hill-top, 

Behold  the  first  line  of  them  skipping,  like  kan- 
garoos seen  on  the  hop. 

XX 

1  "  That  sent  me  into  a  passion,  to  think  of  them 

spying  our  flight  !  " 
Heigh,    Tom  !    you  've    Bridgeman    blood,    boy ! 

And,  "  '  Face  them  !  '  I  shouted  :   '  All  right ; 


GRANDFATHER  BR1DGEMAN    163 

Sure,  Serjeant,  we  '11  take  their  shot  dacent,  like 

gentlemen,'  Grady  replied. 
A  ball  in  his  mouth,  and  the  noble  old  Irishman 

dropped  by  my  side. 
Then  there  was  just  an  instant  to  save  myself, 

when  a  short  wheeze 
Of  bloody  lungs  under  the  smoke,  and  a  red-coat 

crawled  up  on  his  knees. 

XXI 

'  "  'Twas  Ensign  Baynes  of  our  parish." — Ah,  ah, 

Miss  Charlworth,  the  one 
Our  Tom  fought  for  a  young  lady  ?     Come,  now 

we  've  got  into  the  fun  ! — 
"  I  shouldered  him  :  he  primed  his  pistol,  and  I 

trailed  my  musket,  prepared." 
Why,  that 's  a  fine  pick-a-back  for  ye,  to  make 

twenty  Russians  look  scared  ! 
"  They  came — never  mind  how  many  :  we  couldn't 

have  run  very  well, 
We  fought  back  to  back  :    '  face  to  face,  our  last 

time  !  '  he  said,  smiling,  and  fell. 

XXII 

4  "  Then  I  strove  wild  for  his  body  :  the  beggars 

saw  glittering  rings, 
Which  I  vowed  to  send  to  his  mother.     I  got  some 

hard  knocks  and  sharp  stings, 


164   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE' 

But  felt  them  no  more  than  angel,  or  devil,  except 

in  the  wind. 
I  know  that  I  swore  at  a  Russian  for  showing  his 

teeth,  and  he  grinned 
The  harder  :    quick,  as  from  heaven,  a  man  on  a 

horse  rode  between, 
And  fired,  and  swung  his  bright  sabre  :    I  can't 

write  you  more  of  the  scene. 


*  "  But  half  in  his  arms,  and  half  at  his  stirrup,  he 

bore  me  right  forth, 
And  pitched  me  among  my  old  comrades  :    before 

I  could  tell  south  from  north, 
He  caught  my  hand  up,  and  kissed  it !     Don't  ever 

let  any  man  speak 
A  word  against  Frenchmen,  I  near  him  !     I  can't 

find  his  name,  tho'  I  seek. 
But  French,  and  a  General,  surely  he  was,  and,  God 

bless  him  !  thro'  him 
I  've  learnt  to  love  a  whole  nation."  '     The  ancient 

man  paused,  winking  dim. 


A  curious  look,  half  woeful,  was  seen  on  his  face  as 

he  turned 
His  eyes  upon  each  of  his  children,  like  one  who 

but  faintly  discerned 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN        165 

His   old   self  in  an  old  mirror.      Then  gathering 

sense  in  his  fist, 
He  sounded  it  hard  on  his  knee-cap.     '  Your  hand, 

Tom,  the  French  fellow  kissed  ! 
He  kissed  my  boy's  old  pounder  !     I  say  he  's  a 

gentleman  !  '     Straight 
The  letter  he  tossed  to  one  daughter  ;  bade  her  the 

remainder  relate. 

XXV 

Tom  properly  stated  his  praises  in  fac^s,  but  the 

lady  preferred 
To  deck  the  narration  with  brackets,  and  drop  her 

additional  word. 
What  nobler  Christian  natures  these  women  could 

boast,  who  'twas  known, 
Once  spat  at  the  name  of  their  nephew,  and  now 

made  his  praises  their  own  ! 
The  letter  at  last  was  finished,  the  hearers  breathed 

freely,  and  sign 
Was  given,  '  Tom's  health  !  ' — Quoth  the  farmer  : 

'  Eh,  Miss  ?  are  you  weak  in  the  spine  ?  ' 

XXVI 

For  Mary  had  sunk,  and  her  body  was  shaking,  as 

if  in  a  fit. 
Tom's   letter   she   held,    and   her  thumb-nail   the 

month  when  the  letter  was  writ 


166   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

Fast-dinted,  while  she  hung  sobbing  :  '  O,  see,  Sir, 

the  letter  is  old  ! 
O,  do  not  be  too  happy  !  ' — '  If  I  understand  you, 

I  'm  bowled  !  ' 
Said  Grandfather  Bridgeman,  '  and  down  go  my 

wickets  ! — not  happy  !   when  here, 
Here  's  Tom  like  to  marry  his  General's  daughter — 

or  widow — I  '11  swear  ! 


'  I  wager  he  knows  how  to  strut,  too  !     It 's  all  on 

the  cards  that  the  Queen 
Will  ask  him  to  Buckingham  Palace,  to  say  what 

he  's  done  and  he  's  seen. 
Victoria 's  fond  of  her  soldiers  :  and  she 's  got  a  nose 

for  a  fight. 
If  Tom  tells  a  cleverish  story — there  is  such  a  thing 

as  a  knight ! 
And  don't  he  look  roguish  and  handsome  ! — To  see 

a  girl  snivelling  there — 
By  George,  Miss,  it 's  clear  that  you  're  jealous  ! ' — 

'  I  love  him  ! '  she  answered  his  stare. 


Yes  !  now  ! '  breathed  the  voice  of  a  woman. — 
'  Ah  !  now  !  '  quiver' d  low  the  reply. 

And  "  now  "  's  just  a  bit  too  late,  so  it 's  no  use 
your  piping  your  eye.' 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN        167 

The  fanner  added   bluffly  :    '  Old  Lawyer  Charl- 

worth  was  rich  ; 
You  followed  his  instructions  in  kicking  Tom  into 

the  ditch. 
If  you  're  such  a  dutiful  daughter,  that  doesn't 

prove  Tom  is  a  fool. 
Forgive  and  forget  's  my  motto  !  and  here  's  my 

grog  growing  cool  !  ' 


*  But,  Sir,'  Mary  faintly  repeated  :    '  for  four  long 

weeks  I  have  failed 
To  come  and  cast  on  you  my  burden  ;    such  grief 

for  you  always  prevailed  ! 
My  heart  has  so  bled  for  you  !  '     The  old  man 

burst  on  her  speech  : 
'  You  've  chosen  a  likely  time,   Miss  !    a  pretty 

occasion  to  preach  !  ' 
And  was  it  not  outrageous,  that  now,  of  all  times, 

one  should  come 
With  incomprehensible  pity  !     Far  better  had  Mary 

been  dumb. 


But  when  again  she  stammered  in  this  bewildering 

way, 
The  farmer  no  longer  could  bear  it,  and  begged  her 

to  go,  or  to  stay, 


168   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

But  not  to  be  whimpering  nonsense  at  such  a  time. 

Pricked  by  a  goad, 
'  'Twas  you  who  sent  him  to  glory  : — you  've  come 

here  to  reap  what  you  sowed. 
Is  that  it  ?  '  he  asked  ;   and  the  silence  the  elders 

preserved,  plainly  said, 
On  Mary's  heaving  bosom  this  begging  petition 

was  read. 


And  that  it  was  scarcely  a  bargain  that  she  who 
had  driven  him  wild, 

Should  share  now  the  fruits  of  his  valour,  the 
women  expressed,  as  they  smiled. 

The  family  pride  of  the  Bridgemans  was  com- 
forted ;   still,  with  contempt, 

They  looked  on  a  monied  damsel  of  modesty  quite 
so  exempt. 

'  O  give  me  force  to  tell  them  ! '  cried  Mary,  and 
even  as  she  spoke, 

A  shout  and  a  hush  of  the  children  :  a  vision  on  all 
of  them  broke. 

XXXII 

Wheeled,  pale,  in  a  chair,  and  shattered,  the  wreck 

of  their  hero  was  seen  ; 
The  ghost  of  Tom  drawn  slow  o'er  the  orchard's 

shadowy  green. 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN   160 

Could  this  be  the  martial  darling  they  joyed  in  a 

moment  ago  ? 
1  He  knows  it  ?  '  to  Mary  Tom  murmured,   and 

closed  his  weak  lids  at  her  '  No.' 
'  Beloved  !  '  she  said,  falling  by  him,  '  I  have  been 

a  coward  :    I  thought 
You  lay  in  the  foreign  country,  and  some  strange 

good  might  be  wrought. 

XXXIII 

1  Each  day  I  have  come  to  tell  him,  and  failed,  with 
my  hand  on  the  gate. 

I  bore  the  dreadful  knowledge,  and  crushed  my 
heart  with  its  weight. 

The  letter  brought  by  your  comrade — he  has  but 
just  read  it  aloud  ! 

It  only  reached  him  this  morning  !  '  Her  head  on 
his  shoulder  she  bowed. 

Then  Tom  with  pity's  tenderest  lordliness  patted 
her  arm, 

And  eyed  the  old  white-head  fondly,  with  some- 
thing of  doubt  and  alarm. 

xxxiv 

O,  take  to  your  fancy  a  sculptor  whose  fresh  marble 

offspring  appears 
Before  him,  shiningly  perfect,  the  laurel-crown'd 

issue  of  years  : 


170   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Is  heaven  offended  ?  for  lightning  behold  from  its 

bosom  escape, 
And  those  are  mocking  fragments  that  made  the 

harmonious  shape  ! 
He  cannot  love  the  ruins,  till  feeling  that  ruins 

alone 
Are  left,  he  loves  them  threefold.     So  passed  the 

old  grandfather's  moan. 


John's  text  for  a  sermon  on  Slaughter,  he  heard, 

and  he  did  not  protest. 
All  rigid  as  April's  snowdrifts,  he  stood,  hard  and 

feeble  ;   his  chest 
Just  showing  the  swell  of  the  fire  as  it  melted  him. 

Smiting  a  rib, 
'  Heigh  !  what  have  we  been  about,  Tom  !     Was 

this  all  a  terrible  fib  ?  ' 
He  cried,  and  the  letter  forth-trembled.     Tom  told 

what  the  cannon  had  done. 
Few  present  but  ached  to  see  falling  those  aged 

tears  on  his  heart's  son  ! 


Up  lanes  of  the  quiet  village,  and  where  the  mill- 
waters  rush  red 

Thro'  browning  summer  meadows  to  catch  the 
sun's  crimsoning  head, 


GRANDFATHER  BRIDGEMAN        171 

You  meet  an  old  man  and  a  maiden  who  has  the 

soft  ways  of  a  wife 
With   one   whom   they   wheel,    alternate ;     whose 

delicate  flush  of  new  life 
Is  prized  like  the  early  primrose.     Then  shake  his 

right  hand,  in  the  chair — 
The  old  man  fails  never  to  tell  you  :  '  You  've  got 

the  French  General's  there  1 ' 


172   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 


THE  MEETING 

The  old  coach-road  through  a  common  of  furze, 

With  knolls  of  pine  ran  white  ; 
Berries  of  autumn,  with  thistles,  and  burrs, 

And  spider-threads,  droop'd  in  the  light. 

The  light  in  a  thin  blue  veil  peered  sick  ; 

The  sheep  grazed  close  and  still ; 
The  smoke  of  a  farm  by  a  yellow  rick 

Curled  lazily  under  a  hill. 

No  fly  shook  the  round  of  the  silver  net ; 

No  insect  the  swift  bird  chased  ; 
Only  two  travellers  moved  and  met 

Across  that  hazy  waste. 

One  was  a  girl  with  a  babe  that  throve, 

Her  ruin  and  her  bliss  ; 
One  was  a  youth  with  a  lawless  love, 

Who  clasped  it  the  more  for  this. 

The  girl  for  her  babe  hummed  prayerful  speech  ; 

The  youth  for  his  love  did  pray  ; 
Each  cast  a  wistful  look  on  each, 

And  either  went  their  way. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  SOLILOQUY         173 


THE  BEGGAR'S  SOLILOQUY 


Now,  this,  to  my  notion,  is  pleasant  cheer, 

To  lie  all  alone  on  a  ragged  heath, 
Where  your  nose  isn't  sniffing  for  bones  or  beer, 

But  a  peat-fire  smells  like  a  garden  beneath. 
The  cottagers  bustle  about  the  door, 

And  the  girl  at  the  window  ties  her  strings. 
She  's  a  dish  for  a  man  who  's  a  mind  to  be  poor  ; 

Lord  !  women  are  such  expensive  things. 


We  don't  marry  beggars,  says  she  :  why,  no  : 

It  seems  that  to  make  'em  is  what  you  do  ; 
And  as  I  can  cook,  and  scour,  and  sew, 

I  needn't  pay  half  my  victuals  for  you. 
A  man  for  himself  should  be  able  to  scratch, 

But  tickling  's  a  luxury  : — love,  indeed  ! 
Love  burns  as  long  as  the  lucifer  match, 

Wedlock 's    the    candle !     Now,    that 's    my 
creed. 


174   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

in 
The  church-bells  sound  water-like  over  the  wheat ; 

And  up  the  long  path  troop  pair  after  pair. 
The  man's  well-brushed,  and  the  woman  looks  neat: 

It 's  man  and  woman  everywhere  ! 
Unless,  like  me,  you  lie  here  flat, 

With  a  donkey  for  friend,  you  must  have  a 
wife  : 
She  pulls  out  your  hair,  but  she  brushes  your  hat. 

Appearances  make  the  best  half  of  life. 

IV 

You  nice  little  madam  !  you  know  you  're  nice. 

I  remember  hearing  a  parson  say 
You  're  a  plateful  of  vanity  pepper'd  with  vice  ; 

Yon  chap  at  the  gate  thinks  t'  other  way. 
On  his  waistcoat  you  read  both  his  head  and  his 
heart  : 
There  's  a  whole  week's  wages  there  figured  in 
gold! 
Yes  !  when  you  turn  round  you  may  well  give  a 
start  : 
It 's  fun  to  a  fellow  who  's  getting  old. 

v 

Now,  that 's  a  good  craft,  weaving  waistcoats  and 
flowers, 
And  selling  of  ribbons,  and  scenting  of  lard  : 


THE  BEGGAR'S  SOLILOQUY         175 

It  gives  you  a  house  to  get  in  from  the  showers, 
And   food  when   your   appetite  jockeys   you 
hard. 

You  live  a  respectable  man  ;  but  I  ask 

If  it 's  worth  the  trouble  ?    You  use  your  tools, 

And  spend  your  time,  and  what 's  your  task  ? 
Why,  to  make  a  slide  for  a  couple  of  fools. 


You  can't  match  the  colour  o'  these  heath  mounds, 

Nor  better  that  peat-fire  's  agreeable  smell. 
I  'm  clothed-like  with  natural  sights  and  sounds  ; 

To  myself  I  'm  in  tune  :  I  hope  you  're  as  well. 
You  jolly  old  cot  !  though  you  don't  own  coal : 

It 's  a  generous  pot  that 's  boiled  with  peat. 
Let  the  Lord  Mayor  o'  London  roast  oxen  whole  : 

His  smoke,  at  least,  don't  smell  so  sweet. 

VII 

I  'm  not  a  low  Radical,  hating  the  laws, 

Y»Tho  'd  the  aristocracy  rebuke. 
I  talk  o'  the  Lord  Mayor  o'  London  because 

I  once  was  on  intimate  terms  with  his  cook. 
I  served  him  a  turn,  and  got  pensioned  on  scraps, 

And,  Lord,  Sir  !  didn't  I  envy  his  place, 
Till  Death  knock'd  him  down  with  the  softest  of 
taps, 

And  I  knew  what  was  meant  by  a  tallowy  face  ! 


176   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

VIII 

On  the  contrary,  I  'm  Conservative  quite  ; 

There  's  beggars  in  Scripture  'mongst  Gentiles 
and  Jews  : 
It 's  nonsense,  trying  to  set  things  right, 

For  if  people  will  give,  why,  who  '11  refuse  ? 
That  stopping  old  custom  wakes  my  spleen  : 

The  poor  and  the  rich  both  in  giving  agree  : 
Your  tight-fisted  shopman  's  the  Radical  mean  : 

There  's  nothing  in  common  'twixt  him  and  me. 

IX 

He  says  I  'm  no  use  !  but  I  won't  reply. 

You  're  lucky  not  being  of  use  to  him  ! 
On  week-days  he  's  playing  at  Spider  and  Fly, 

And  on  Sundays  he  sings  about  Cherubim  ! 
Nailing  shillings  to  counters  is  his  chief  work  : 

He  nods  now  and  then  at  the  name  on  his  door  : 
But  judge  of  us  two,  at  a  bow  and  a  smirk, 

I  think  I  'm  his  match  :    and  I  'm  honest — 
that 's  more. 

x 

No  use  !  well,  I  mayn't  be.  You  ring  a  pig's 
snout, 

And  then  call  the  animal  glutton  !  Now,  he*; 
Mr.  Shopman,  he  's  nought  but  a  pipe  and  a  spout 

Who  won't  let  the  goods  o'  this  world  pass  free. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  SOLILOQUY         177 

This  blazing  blue  weather  all  round  the  brown  crop, 
He  can't  enjoy  !  all  but  cash  he  hates. 

He  's  only  a  snail  that  crawls  under  his  shop  ; 

Though  he  has  got  the  ear  o'  the  magistrates. 


Now,  giving  and  taking  's  a  proper  exchange, 

Like    question    and    answer :     you  're    both 
content. 
But  buying  and  selling  seems  always  strange  ; 

You  're  hostile,  and  that 's  the  thing  that 's 
meant. 
It 's  man  against  man — you  're  almost  brutes  ; 

There  's  here  no  thanks,  and  there  's  here  no 
pride. 
If  Charity  's  Christian,  don't  blame  my  pursuits, 
I  carry  a  touchstone  by  which  you  're  tried. 


— '  Take  it,'  says  she,  '  it 's  all  I  've  got ' : 

I  remember  a  girl  in  London  streets  : 
She  stood  by  a  coffee-stall,  nice  and  hot, 

My  belly  was  like  a  lamb  that  bleats. 
Says  I  to  myself,  as  her  shilling  I  seized, 

You  haven't  a  character  here,  my  dear  ! 
But  for  making  a  rascal  like  me  so  pleased, 

I  '11  give  you  one,  in  a  better  sphere  ! 

M 


178   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

XIII 

And  that 's  where  it  is — she  made  me  feel 

I  was  a  rascal  :   but  people  who  scorn, 
And  tell  a  poor  patch-breech  he  isn't  genteel, 

Why,  they  make  him  kick  up — and  he  treads 
on  a  corn. 
It  isn't  liking,  it 's  curst  ill-luck, 

Drives  half  of  us  into  the  begging-trade  : 
If  for  taking  to  water  you  praise  a  duck, 

For  taking  to  beer  why  a  man  upbraid  ? 


The  sermon  's  over  :   they  're  out  of  the  porch, 

And  it 's  time  for  me  to  move  a  leg  ; 
But  in  general  people  who  come  from  church, 

And  have  called  themselves  sinners,  hate  chaps 
to  beg. 
I  '11  wager  they  '11  all  of  'em  dine  to-day  ! 

I  was  easy  half  a  minute  ago. 
If  that  isn't  pig  that 's  baking  away, 

May    I    perish  ! — we  're    never    contented — 
heigho  1 


CASSANDRA  179 


CASSANDRA 


Captive  on  a  foreign  shore, 
Far  from  Ilion's  hoary  wave, 
Agamemnon's  bridal  slave 
Speaks  Futurity  no  more  : 
Death  is  busy  with  her  grave. 


Thick  as  water,  bursts  remote 
Round  her  ears  the  alien  din, 
While  her  little  sullen  chin 
Fills  the  hollows  of  her  throat : 
Silent  lie  her  slaughter'd  kin. 

in 

Once  to  many  a  pealing  shriek, 
Lo,  from  Ilion's  topmost  tower, 
Ilion's  fierce  prophetic  flower 
Cried  the  coming  of  the  Greek  ! 
Black  in  Hades  sits  the  hour. 


180   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 

IV 

Eyeing  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
Folded  like  a  prophet's  scroll, 
In  the  deep's  long  shoreward  roll 
Here  she  sees  the  anchor  cast : 
Backward  moves  her  sunless  soul. 


Chieftains,  brethren  of  her  joy, 
Shades,  the  white  light  in  their  eyes 
Slanting  to  her  lips,  arise, 
Crowding  quick  the  plains  of  Troy  : 
Now  they  tell  her  not  she  lies. 


O  the  bliss  upon  the  plains 
Where  the  joining  heroes  clashed 
Shield  and  spear,  and,  unabashed, 
Challenged  with  hot  chariot-reins 
Gods  ! — they  glimmer  ocean-washed. 

VII 

Alien  voices  round  the  ships, 
Thick  as  water,  shouting  Home. 
Argives,  pale  as  midnight  foam, 
Wax  before  her  awful  lips  : 
White  as  stars  that  front  the  gloom. 


UN! 

SSANDB 

VIII 

Like  a  torch-flame  that  by  day 
Up  the  daylight  twists,  and,  pale, 
Catches  air  in  leaps  that  fail, 
Crushed  by  the  inveterate  ray, 
Through  her  shines  the  Ten- Years'  Tale. 


Once  to  many  a  pealing  shriek, 
Lo,  from  Ilion's  topmost  tower, 
Ilion's  fierce  prophetic  flower, 
Cried  the  coming  of  the  Greek  ' 
Black  in  Hades  sits  the  hour. 


Still  upon  her  sunless  soul, 
Gleams  the  narrow  hidden  space 
Forward,  where  her  fiery  race 
Falters  on  its  ashen  goal  : 
Still  the  Future  strikes  her  face. 

XI 

See,  toward  the  conqueror's  car 
Step  the  purple  Queen  whose  hate 
Wraps  red-armed  her  royal  mate 
With  his  Asian  tempest-star  : 
Now  Cassandra  views  her  Fate. 


182   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ■ 

XII 

King  of  men  !  the  blinded  host 
Shout : — she  lifts  her  brooding  chin  : 
Glad  along  the  joyous  din 
Smiles  the  grand  majestic  ghost : 
Clytemnestra  leads  him  in. 

XIII 

Lo,  their  smoky  limbs  aloof, 
Shadowing  heaven  and  the  seas, 
Fates  and  Furies,  tangling  Threes, 
Tear  and  mix  above  the  roof  : 
Fates  and  fierce  Eumenides. 

XIV 

Is  the  prophetess  with  rods 
Beaten,  that  she  writhes  in  air  ? 
With  the  Gods  who  never  spare, 
Wrestling  with  the  unsparing  Gods, 
Lone,  her  body  struggles  there. 

xv 

Like  the  snaky  torch- flame  white, 
Levelled  as  aloft  it  twists, 
She,  her  soaring  arms,  and  wrists 
Drooping,  struggles  with  the  light, 
Helios,  bright  above  all  mists  ! 


CASSANDRA  183 

XVI 

In  his  orb  she  sees  the  tower, 
Dusk  against  its  flaming  rims, 
Where  of  old  her  wretched  limbs 
Twisted  with  the  stolen  power  : 
Ilium  all  the  lustre  dims  ! 

XVII 

O  the  bliss  upon  the  plains, 
Where  the  joining  heroes  clashed 
Shield  and  spear,  and,  unabashed, 
Challenged  with  hot  chariot-reins 
Gods  ! — they  glimmer  ocean-washed. 

XVIII 

Thrice  the  Sun-god's  name  she  calls  ; 
Shrieks  the  deed  that  shames  the  sky  ; 
Like  a  fountain  leaping  high, 
Falling  as  a  fountain  falls  : 
Lo,  the  blazing  wheels  go  by  1 


Captive  on  a  foreign  shore, 
Far  from  Ilion's  hoary  wave, 
Agamemnon's  bridal  slave 
Speaks  Futurity  no  more  : 
Death  is  busy  with  her  grave. 


184  POEMS  FROM  'MODERN  LOVE 


THE  YOUNG  USURPER 

On  my  darling's  bosom 
Has  dropped  a  living  rosy-bud, 

Fair  as  brilliant  Hesper 

Against  the  brimming  flood. 
She  handles  him, 
She  dandles  him, 

She  fondles  him  and  eyes  him  : 
And  if  upon  a  tear  he  wakes, 

With  many  a  kiss  she  dries  him  : 
She  covets  every  move  he  makes, 

And  never  enough  can  prize  him. 
Ah,  the  young  Usurper  ! 
I  yield  my  golden  throne  : 
Such  angel  bands  attend  his  hands 
To  claim  it  for  his  own. 


MARGARETS  BRIDAL-EVE  185 


MARGARET'S  BRIDAL-EVE 


The  old  grey  mother  she  thrummed  on  her  knee  : 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
And  which  of  the  handsome  young  men  shall  it  be  ? 

There  's  a  rose  that  's  ready  for  clipping. 

Mj  daughter,  come  hither,  come  hither  to  me  : 

There  is  a  rose  that 's  ready  ; 
Come,  point  me  your  finger  on  him  that  you  see  : 

There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

O  mother,  my  mother,  it  never  can  be  : 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
For  I  shall  bring  shame  on  the  man  marries  me : 

There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

Now  let  your  tongue  be  deep  as  the  sea  : 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
And  the  man  '11  jump  for  you,  right  briskly  will  he  : 
There  's  a  rose  that  '5  ready  for  clipping. 


186   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

Tall  Margaret  wept  bitterly  ; 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
And  as  her  parent  bade  did  she  ; 

There  's  a  rose  that  's  ready  for  clipping. 

O  the  handsome  young  man  dropped  down  on  his 
knee ; 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Pale  Margaret  gave  him  her  hand,  woe  's  me  ! 

There  '$  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 


O  mother,  my  mother,  this  thing  I  must  say, 
There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 

Ere  he  lies  on  the  breast  where  that  other  lay 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

Now,  folly,  my  daughter,  for  men  are  men  : 
There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 

You  marry  them  blindfold,  I  tell  you  again  : 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

O  mother,  but  when  he  kisses  me  ! 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
My  child,  'tis  which  shall  sweetest  be  ! 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


MARGARET'S  BRIDAL-EVE  IS1; 

0  mother,  but  when  I  awake  in  the  morn  ! 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
My  child,  you  are  his,  and  the  ring  is  worn  ; 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

Tall  Margaret  sighed  and  loosened  a  tress  ; 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
Poor  comfort  she  had  of  her  comeliness  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

My  mother  will  sink  if  this  thing  be  said  : 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
That  my  first  betrothed  came  thrice  to  my  bed  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

He  died  on  my  shoulder  the  third  cold  night ; 
There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 

1  dragged  his  body  all  through  the  moonlight ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

But  when  I  came  by  my  father's  door ; 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
I  fell  in  a  lump  on  the  stiff  dead  floor ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

O  neither  to  heaven,  nor  yet  to  hell ; 

There  is  a  rose  in  the  garden  ; 
Could  I  follow  the  lover  I  loved  so  well ! 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


188   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  • 

m 

The  bridesmaids  slept  in  their  chambers  apart  ; 

There  is  a  rose  that 's  ready  ; 
Tall  Margaret  walked  with  her  thumping  heart ; 

There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

The  frill  of  her  nightgown  below  the  left  breast, 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Had  fall'n  like  a  cloud  of  the  moonlighted  West ; 

There  's  a  rose  that  's  ready  for  clipping. 

But  where  the  West-cloud  breaks  to  a  star  ; 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Pale  Margaret's  breast  showed  a  winding  scar  ; 

There  's  a  rose  that  '$  ready  for  clipping. 

0  few  are  the  brides  with  such  a  sign  ! 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Though  I  went  mad  the  fault  was  mine  ; 

There  '5  a  rose  that  's  ready  for  clipping. 

1  must  speak  to  him  under  this  roof  to-night ; 

There  is  a  rose  that 's  ready  ; 
I  shall  burn  to  death  if  I  speak  in  the  light ; 
There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

O  my  breast !  I  must  strike  you  a  bloodier  wound 

There  is  a  rose  that  '5  ready  ; 
Than  when  I  scored  you  red  and  swooned, 

There  *s  a  rose  that  ys  ready  for  clipping. 


MARGARET'S  BRIDAL-EVE  189 

I  will  stab  my  honour  under  his  eye  ; 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Though  I  bleed  to  the  death,  I  shall  let  out  the  lie  ; 

There  '$  a  rose  that  's  ready  for  clipping. 

O  happy  my  bridesmaids  !  white  sleep  is  with  you  ! 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
Had  he  chosen  among  you  he  might  sleep  too  ! 

There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

O  happy  my  bridesmaids  !  your  breasts  are  clean  ; 

There  is  a  rose  that  's  ready  ; 
You  carry  no  mark  of  what  has  been  ! 

There  's  a  rose  that 's  ready  for  clipping. 

IV 

An  hour  before  the  chilly  beam, 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 

The  bridegroom  started  out  of  a  dream, 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

He  went  to  the  door,  and  there  espied 
Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 

The  figure  of  his  silent  bride, 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

He  went  to  the  door,  and  let  her  in  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
Whiter  looked  she  than  a  child  of  sin  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


190   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

She  looked  so  white,  she  looked  so  sweet ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
She  looked  so  pure  he  fell  at  her  feet ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

He  fell  at  her  feet  with  love  and  awe  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
A  stainless  body  of  light  he  saw  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

0  Margaret,  say  you  are  not  of  the  dead  ! 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 

My  bride  !  by  the  angels  at  night  are  you  led 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

1  am  not  led  by  the  angels  about ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
But  I  have  a  devil  within  to  let  out ; 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

0  Margaret  !  my  bride  and  saint ! 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
There  is  on  you  no  earthly  taint : 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

1  am  no  saint,  and  no  bride  can  I  be, 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
Until  I  have  opened  my  bosom  to  thee  ; 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


MARGARET'S   BRIDAL-EVE  191 

To  catch  at  her  heart  she  laid  one  hand  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
She  told  the  tale  where  she  did  stand ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

She  stood  before  him  pale  and  tall ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
Her  eyes  between  his,  she  told  him  all ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

She  saw  how  her  body  grew  freckled  and  foul ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
She  heard  from  the  woods  the  hooting  owl ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

With  never  a  quiver  her  mouth  did  speak  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
O  when  she  had  done  she  stood  so  meek  ! 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

The  bridegroom  stamped  and  called  her  vile  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
He  did  but  waken  a  little  smile  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

The  bridegroom  raged  and  called  her  foul ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
She  heard  from  the  woods  the  hooting  owl ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


192   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

He  muttered  a  name  full  bitter  and  sore ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
She  fell  in  a  lump  on  the  still  dead  floor  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

O  great  was  the  wonder,  and  loud  the  wail, 
Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 

When  through  the  household  flew  the  tale  ; 
And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

The  old  grey  mother  she  dressed  the  bier  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
With  a  shivering  chin  and  never  a  tear ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

O  had  you  but  done  as  I  bade  you,  my  child  ! 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
You  would  not  have  died  and  been  reviled  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

The  bridegroom  he  hung  at  midnight  by  the  bier  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
He  eyed  the  white  girl  thro'  a  dazzling  tear  ; 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 

O  had  you  been  false  as  the  women  who  stray  ; 

Red  rose  and  white  in  the  garden  ; 
You  would  not  be  now  with  the  Angels  of  Day  I 

And  the  bird  sings  over  the  roses. 


THE  HEAD  OF  BRAN  THE  BLEST  193 


THE  HEAD  OF  BRAN  THE  BLEST 


When  the  Head  of  Bran 

Was  firm  on  British  shoulders, 
God  made  a  man  ! 

Cried  all  beholders. 

Steel  could  not  resist 

The  weight  his  arm  would  rattle 
He,  with  naked  fist, 

Has  brain'd  a  knight  in  battle. 

He  marched  on  the  foe, 

And  never  counted  numbers  ; 
Foreign  widows  know 

The  hosts  he  sent  to  slumbers. 

As  a  street  you  scan, 

That  's  towered  by  the  steeple, 
So  the  Head  of  Bran 

Rose  o'er  his  people. 
N 


194   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 


'  Death  's  my  neighbour,' 

Quoth  Bran  the  Blest 
*  Christian  labour 

Brings  Christian  rest. 
From  the  trunk  sever 

The  Head  of  Bran, 
That  which  never 

Has  bent  to  man  ! 

4  That  which  never 

To  men  has  bowed, 
Shall  live  ever 

To  shame  the  shroud 
Shall  live  ever 

To  face  the  foe  ; 
Sever  it,  sever, 

And  with  one  blow. 

1  Be  it  written, 

That  all  I  wrought 
Was  for  Britain, 

In  deed  and  thought  i 
Be  it  written, 

That  while  I  die, 
Glory  to  Britain  ! 

Is  my  last  cry. 


THE  HEAD  OF  BRAN  THE  BLEST     195 

*  Glory  to  Britain  ! 

Death  echoes  me  round. 
Glory  to  Britain  ! 

The  world  shall  resound. 
Glory  to  Britain  ! 

In  ruin  and  fall, 
Glory  to  Britain  ! 

Is  heard  over  all.' 

in 
Burn,  Sun,  down  the  sea  ! 
Bran  lies  low  with  thee. 

Burst,  Morn,  from  the  main  ! 
Bran  so  shall  rise  again. 

Blow,  Wind,  from  the  field  ! 
Bran's  Head  is  the  Briton's  shield. 

Beam,  Star,  in  the  West ! 

Bright  burns  the  Head  of  Bran  the  Blest. 

IV 

Crimson-footed,  like  the  stork, 
From  great  ruts  of  slaughter, 

Warriors  of  the  Golden  Torque, 
Cross  the  lifting  water. 

Princes  seven,  enchaining  hands, 
Bear  the  live  head  homeward. 


196      POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Lo  !  it  speaks,  and  still  commands  : 
Gazing  out  far  foamward. 

Fiery  words  of  lightning  sense, 

Down  the  hollows  thunder  ; 
Forest  hostels  know  not  whence 

Comes  the  speech,  and  wonder. 
City- Castles,  on  the  steep, 

Where  the  faithful  Seven 
House  at  midnight,  hear,  in  sleep, 

Laughter  under  heaven. 

Lilies,  swimming  on  the  mere, 

In  the  castle  shadow, 
Under  draw  their  heads,  and  Fear 

Walks  the  misty  meadow. 
Tremble  not  !  it  is  not  Death 

Pledging  dark  espousal  : 
'Tis  the  Head  of  endless  breath, 

Challenging  carousal ! 

Brim  the  horn  !  a  health  is  drunk, 

Now,  that  shall  keep  going  : 
Life  is  but  the  pebble  sunk  ; 

Deeds,  the  circle  growing  ! 
Fill,  and  pledge  the  Head  of  Bran  ! 

While  his  lead  they  follow, 
Long  shall  heads  in  Britain  plan 

Speech  Death  cannot  swallow  ! 


BY  MORNING  TWILIGHT  197 


BY  MORNING  TWILIGHT 

Night,  like  a  dying  mother, 
Eyes  her  young  offspring,  Day. 
The  birds  are  dreamily  piping. 
And  O,  my  love,  my  darling  ! 

The  night  is  life  ebb'd  away  : 
Away  beyond  our  reach  ! 
A  sea  that  has  cast  us  pale  on  the  beach  ; 

Weeds  with  the  weeds  and  the  pebbles 
That  hear  the  lone  tamarisk  rooted  in  sand, 
Sway 
With  the  song  of  the  sea  to  the  land. 


198   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


AUTUMN  EVEN-SONG 

The  long  cloud  edged  with  streaming  grey, 

Soars  from  the  West ; 
The  red  leaf  mounts  with  it  away, 

Showing  the  nest 
A  blot  among  the  branches  bare  : 
There  is  a  cry  of  outcasts  in  the  air. 

Swift  little  breezes,  darting  chill, 

Pant  down  the  lake  ; 
A  crow  flies  from  the  yellow  hill, 
And  in  its  wake 
A  baffled  line  of  labouring  rooks  : 
Steel-surfaced  to  the  light  the  river  looks. 

Pale  on  the  panes  of  the  old  hall 

Gleams  the  lone  space 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  squall ; 
And  on  its  face 
Mournfully  glimmers  to  the  last : 
Great  oaks  grow  mighty  minstrels  in  the  blast. 


UNKNOWN  FAIR  FACES  199 

Pale  the  rain-rutted  roadways  shine 

In  the  green  light 
Behind  the  cedar  and  the  pine  : 

Come,  thundering  night  ! 
Blacken  broad  earth  with  hoards  of  storm  : 
For  me  yon  valley-cottage  beckons  warm. 


UNKNOWN  FAIR  FACES 

Though  I  am  faithful  to  my  loves  lived  through, 
And  place  them  among  Memory's  great  stars, 
WTiere  burns  a  face  like  Hesper  :   one  like  Mars  : 
Of  visages  I  get  a  moment's  view, 
Sweet  eyes  that  in  the  heaven  of  me,  too, 
Ascend,  tho'  virgin  to  my  life  they  passed. 
Lo,  these  within  my  destiny  seem  glassed 
At  times  so  bright,  I  wish  that  Hope  were  new. 
A  gracious  freckled  lady,  tall  and  grave, 
Went  in  a  shawl  voluminous  and  white, 
Last  sunset  by  ;  and  going  sow'd  a  glance. 
Earth  is  too  poor  to  hold  a  second  chance  ; 
I  will  not  ask  for  more  than  Fortune  gave  : 
My  heart  she  goes  from — never  from  my  sight ! 


200   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


PHANTASY 

i 

Within  a  Temple  of  the  Toes, 

Where  twirled  the  passionate  Wili, 

I  saw  full  many  a  market  rose, 
And  sighed  for  my  village  lily. 


With  cynical  Adrian  then  I  took  flight 
To  that  old  dead  city  whose  carol 

Bursts  out  like  a  reveller's  loud  in  the  night, 
As  he  sits  astride  his  barrel. 

in 

We  two  were  bound  the  Alps  to  scale, 
Up  the  rock-reflecting  river  ; 

Old  times  blew  thro'  me  like  a  gale, 
And  kept  my  thoughts  in  a  quiver. 

IV 

Hawking  ruin,  wood-slope,  and  vine, 

Reeled  silver-laced  under  my  vision, 


PHANTASY  201 

And  into  me  passed,  with  the  green-eyed  wine 
Knocking  hard  at  my  head  for  admission. 


I  held  the  village  lily  cheap, 

And  the  dream  around  her  idle  : 

Lo,  quietty  as  I  lay  to  sleep, 

The  bells  led  me  off  to  a  bridal. 


My  bride  wore  the  hood  of  a  Benguine, 
And  mine  was  the  foot  to  falter  ; 

Three  cowled  monks,  rat-eyed,  were  seen  ; 
The  Cross  was  of  bones  o'er  the  altar. 


VII 

The  Cross  was  of  bones  ;  the  priest  that  read, 

A  spectacled  necromancer  : 
But  at  the  fourth  word,  the  bride  I  led, 

Changed  to  an  Opera  dancer. 

VIII 

A  young  ballet-beauty,  who  perked  in  her  place, 
A  darling  of  pink  and  spangles  ; 

One  fair  foot  level  with  her  face, 

And  the  hearts  of  men  at  her  ankles. 


202   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

IX 

She  whirled,  she  twirled,  the  mock-priest  grinned, 

And  quickly  his  mask  unriddled  ; 
'Twas  Adrian  !  loud  his  old  laughter  dinned  ; 

Then  he  seized  a  fiddle,  and  fiddled. 

x 

He  fiddled,  he  glowed  with  the  bottomless  fire, 

Like  Sathanas  in  feature  : 
All  through  me  he  fiddled  a  wolfish  desire 

To  dance  with  that  bright  creature. 

XI 

And  gathering  courage  I  said  to  my  soul, 

Throttle  the  thing  that  hinders  ! 
When  the  three  cowled  monks,  from  black  as  coal, 

Waxed  hot  as  furnace-cinders. 

XII 

They  caught  her  up,  twirling  :  they  leapt  between- 
whiles  : 

The  fiddler  flickered  with  laughter  : 
Profanely  they  flew  down  the  awful  aisles, 

Where  I  went  sliding  after. 

XIII 

Down  the  awful  aisles,  by  the  fretted  walls, 

Beneath  the  Gothic  arches  : — 
King  Skull  in  the  black  confessionals 

Sat  rub-a-dub-dubbing  his  marches. 


PHANTASY  203 

XIV 

Then  the  silent  cold  stone  warriors  frowned, 
The  pictured  saints  strode  forward  : 

A  whirlwind  swept  them  from  holy  ground  ; 
A  tempest  puffed  them  nor' ward. 

xv 

They  shot  through  the  great  cathedral  door  ; 

Like  mallards  they  traversed  ocean  : 
And  gazing  below,  on  its  boiling  floor, 

I  marked  a  horrid  commotion. 


Down  a  forest's  long  alleys  they  spun  like  tops 
It  seemed  that  for  ages  and  ages, 

Thro'  the  Book  of  Life  bereft  of  stops, 
They  waltzed  continuous  pages. 

XVII 

And  ages  after,  scarce  awake, 

And  my  blood  with  the  fever  fretting, 
I  stood  alone  by  a  forest-lake, 

Whose  shadows  the  moon  were  netting. 

XVIII 

Lilies,  golden  and  white,  by  the  curls 

Of  their  broad  flat  leaves  hung  swaying. 

A  wreath  of  languid  twining  girls 

Streamed  upward,  long  locks  disarraying. 


204   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

XIX 

Their  cheeks  had  the  satin  frost-glow  of  the  moon ; 

Their  eyes  the  fire  of  Sirius. 
They  circled,  and  droned  a  monotonous  tune, 

Abandoned  to  love  delirious. 

xx 

Like  lengths  of  convolvulus  torn  from  the  hedge, 

And  trailing  the  highway  over, 
The  dreamy-eyed  mistresses  circled  the  sedge, 

And  called  for  a  lover,  a  lover  1 

XXI 

I  sank,  I  rose  through  seas  of  eyes, 

In  odorous  swathes  delicious  : 
They  fanned  me  with  impetuous  sighs, 

They  bit  me  with  kisses  vicious. 

XXII 

My  ears  were  spelled,  my  neck  was  coiled, 
And  I  with  their  fury  was  glowing, 

When  the  marbly  waters  bubbled  and  boiled 
At  a  watery  noise  of  crowing. 

XXIII 

They  dragged  me  low  and  low  to  the  lake  : 
Their  kisses  more  stormily  showered  ; 

On  the  emerald  brink,  in  the  white  moon's  wake, 
An  earthly  damsel  cowered. 


PHANTASY  205 

XXIV 

Fresh  heart-sobs  shook  her  knitted  hands 

Beneath  a  tiny  suckling, 
As  one  by  one  of  the  doleful  bands 

Dived  like  a  fairy  duckling. 

XXV 

And  now  my  turn  had  come — O  me  ! 

What  wisdom  was  mine  that  second  ! 
I  dropped  on  the  adorer's  knee  ; 

To  that  sweet  figure  I  beckoned. 

XXVI 

Save  me  !   save  me  !   for  now  I  know 

The  powers  that  Nature  gave  me, 
And  the  value  of  honest  love  I  know : — 

My  village  lily  !   save  me  ! 

XXVII 

Come  'twixt  me  and  the  sisterhood, 

While  the  passion-born  phantoms  are  fleeing  ! 
Oh,  he  that  is  true  to  flesh  and  blood, 

Is  true  to  his  own  being  1 

XXVIII 

And  he  that  is  false  to  flesh  and  blood, 

Is  false  to  the  star  within  him  : 
And  the  mad  and  hungry  sisterhood 

All  under  the  tides  shall  win  him  ! 


206   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


My  village  lily  !   save  me  !   save  ! 

For  strength  is  with  the  holy  : — 
Already  I  shuddered  to  feel  the  wave, 

As  I  kept  sinking  slowly  : — 


I  felt  the  cold  wave  and  the  under-tug 

Of  the  Brides,  when — starting  and  shrinking- 

Lo,  Adrian  tilts  the  water- jug  ! 

And  Bruges  with  morn  is  blinking. 


Merrily  sparkles  sunny  prime 

On  gabled  peak  and  arbour  : 

Merrily  rattles  belfry-chime 

The  song  of  Sevilla's  Barber. 


SHEMSELNIHAR  207 


SHEMSELNIHAR 

O  my  lover  !   the  night  like  a  broad  smooth  wave 
Bears  us  onward,  and  morn,  a  black  rock, 
shines  wet. 
How  I  shuddered — I  knew  not  that  I  was  a  slave, 
Till  I  looked  on  thy  face  : — then  I  writhed  in 
the  net. 
Then  I  felt  like  a  thing  caught  by  fire,  that  her  star 
Glowed  dark  on  the  bosom  of  Shemselnihar. 

And  he  came,  whose  I  am  :  O  my  lover  !  he  came  : 
And  his  slave,  still  so  envied  of  women,  was  I : 

And  I  turned  as  a  hissing  leaf  spits  from  the  flame, 
Yes,  I  shrivelled  to  dust  from  him,  haggard 
and  dry. 

O  forgive  her  : — she  was  but  as  dead  lilies  are  : 

The  life  of  her  heart  fled  from  Shemselnihar. 

Yet  with  thee  like  a  full  throbbing  rose  how  I 
bloom  ! 
Like  a  rose  by  the  fountain  whose  showering 
we  hear, 


208   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ■ 

As  we  lie,  O  my  lover  !   in  this  rich  gloom, 

Smelling  faint  the  cool  breath  of  the  lemon- 
groves  near. 
As  we  lie  gazing  out  on  that  glowing  great  star — 
Ah  !   dark  on  the  bosom  of  Shemselnihar. 

Yet  with  thee  am  I  not  as  an  arm  of  the  vine, 

Firm  to  bind  thee,  to  cherish  thee,  feed  thee 
sweet  ? 
Swear  an  oath  on  my  lip  to  let  none  disentwine 
The  life  that  here  fawns  to  give  warmth  to 
thy  feet. 
I  on  thine,  thus  !  no  more  shall  that  jewelled  Head 

jar 
The  music  thou  breathest  on  Shemselnihar. 

Far  away,  far  away,  where  the  wandering  scents 
Of  all  flowers  are  sweetest,  white  mountains 
among, 
There  my  kindred  abide  in  their  green  and  blue 
tents  : 
Bear  me  to  them,  my  lover  !   they  lost  me  so 
young. 
Let  us  slip  down  the  stream  and  leap  steed  till  afar 
None  question  thy  claim  upon  Shemselnihar. 

O  that  long  note  the  bulbul  gave  out — meaning 
love  ! 
O  my  lover,  hark  to  him  and  think  it  my  voice  ! 


SHEMSELNIHAR  209 

The  blue  night  like  a  great  bell-flower  from  above 
Drooping  low  and  gold-eyed  :   O,  but  hear  him 
rejoice  ! 
Can  it  be  ?  'twas  a  flash  !  that  accurst  scimitar 
In  thought  even  cuts  thee  from  Shemselnihar. 

Yes,  I  would  that,  less  generous,  he  would  oppress, 

He  would  chain  me,  upbraid  me,  burn  deep 

brands  for  hate, 

Than  with  this  mask  of  freedom  and  gorgeousness, 

Bespangle  my  slavery,  mock  my  strange  fate. 

Would,  would,  would,  O  my  lover,  he  knew — dared 

debar 
Thy  coming,  and  earn  curse  of  Shemselnihar  1 


210   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


A  ROAR  THROUGH  THE  TALL  TWIN 
ELM-TREES 

A  roar  thro'  the  tall  twin  elm -trees 
The  mustering  storm  betrayed  : 

The  South-wind  seized  the  willow 
That  over  the  water  swayed. 

Then  fell  the  steady  deluge 
In  which  I  strove  to  doze, 

Hearing  all  night  at  my  window 
The  knock  of  the  winter  rose. 

The  rainy  rose  of  winter  ! 

An  outcast  of  must  pine. 
And  from  thy  bosom  outcast 

Am  I,  dear  lady  mine. 


WHEN  I  WOULD  IMAGE  211 


WHEN  I  WOULD  IMAGE 

When  I  would  image  her  features, 
Comes  up  a  shrouded  head  : 

I  touch  the  outlines,  shrinking  ; 

She  seems  of  the  wandering  dead. 

But  when  love  asks  for  nothing, 
And  lies  on  his  bed  of  snow, 

The  face  slips  under  my  eyelids, 
All  in  its  living  glow. 

Like  a  dark  cathedral  city, 

Whose  spires,  and  domes,  and  towers 
Quiver  in  violet  lightnings, 

My  soul  basks  on  for  hours. 


212   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


I  CHAFE  AT  DARKNESS 

I  chafe  at  darkness  in  the  night, 

But  when  'tis  light, 
Hope  shuts  her  eyes  ;   the  clouds  are  pale  ; 
The  fields  stretch  cold  into  a  distance  hard  : 
I  wish  again  to  draw  the  veil 
Thousand-starred. 

Am  I  of  them  whose  blooms  are  shed, 
Whose  fruits  are  spent, 

Who  from  dead  eyes  see  Life  half  dead  ;— 
Because  desire  is  feeble  discontent  ? 

Ah,  no  !  desire  and  hope  should  die, 
Thus  were  I. 

But  in  me  something  clipped  of  wing, 

Within  its  ring 
Frets  ;   for  I  have  lost  what  made 
The  dawn-breeze  magic,  and  the  twilight  beam 
A  hand  with  tidings  o'er  the  glade 

Waving  seen. 


BY  THE  ROSANNA  213 


BY  THE  ROSANNA 
To  F.  M. 

Stanzer  Thai,,  Tyrol. 

The  old  grey  Alp  has  caught  the  cloud, 

And  the  torrent  river  sings  aloud  ; 

The  glacier-green  Rosanna  sings 

An  organ  song  of  its  upper  springs. 

Foaming  under  the  tiers  of  pine, 

I  see  it  dash  down  the  dark  ravine, 

And  it  tumbles  the  rocks  in  boisterous  play, 

With  an  earnest  will  to  find  its  way. 

Sharp  it  throws  out  an  emerald  shoulder, 

And,  thundering  ever  of  the  mountain, 
Slaps  in  sport  some  giant  boulder, 

And  tops  it  in  a  silver  fountain. 
A  chain  of  foam  from  end  to  end, 
And  a  solitude  so  deep,  my  friend, 
You  may  forget  that  man  abides 
Beyond  the  great  mute  mountain-sides. 
Yet  to  me,  in  this  high-walled  solitude 
Of  river  and  rock  and  forest  rude, 
The  roaring  voice  through  the  long  white  chain, 
Is  the  voice  of  the  world  of  bubble  and  brain. 


214      POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE 


ODE  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  EARTH  IN 
AUTUMN 

Fair  Mother  Earth  lay  on  her  back  last  night, 

To  gaze  her  fill  on  Autumn's  sunset  skies, 

When  at  a  waving  of  the  fallen  light, 

Sprang  realms  of  rosy  fruitage  o'er  her  eyes. 

A  lustrous  heavenly  orchard  hung  the  West, 

Wherein  the  blood  of  Eden  bloomed  again  : 

Red  were  the  myriad  cherub-mouths  that  pressed, 

Among  the  clusters,  rich  with  song,  full  fain, 

But  dumb,  because  that  overmastering  spell 

Of  rapture  held  them  dumb  :  then,  here  and  there, 

A  golden  harp  lost  strings  ;   a  crimson  shell 

Burnt  grey  ;   and  sheaves  of  lustre  fell  to  air. 

The  illimitable  eagerness  of  hue 

Bronzed,  and  the  beamy  winged  bloom  that  flew 

'Mid  those  bunched  fruits  and  thronging  figures 

failed. 
A  green-edged  lake  of  saffron  touched  the  blue, 
With  isles  of  fireless  purple  lying  through  : 
And  Fancy  on  that  lake  to  seek  lost  treasures 

sailed. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  EARTH  IN  AUTUMN    215 

Not  long  the  silence  followed  : 
The  voice  that  issues  from  the  breast, 

O  glorious  South-west, 
Along  the  gloom-horizon  holloa'd  ; 
Warning  the  valleys  with  a  mellow  roar 
Through  flapping  wings  ;   then  sharp  the  woodland 
bore 
A  shudder  and  a  noise  of  hands  : 
A  thousand  horns  from  some  far  vale 
In  ambush  sounding  on  the  gale. 
Forth  from  the  cloven  sky  came  bands 
Of  revel -gathering  spirits  ;   trooping  down, 
Some  rode  the  tree-tops  ;  some  on  torn  cloud-strips 

Burst  screaming  thro'  the  lighted  town  : 
And  scudding  seaward,  some  fell  on  big  ships : 
Or  mounting  the  sea-horses  blew 
Bright  foam-flakes  on  the  black  review 
Of  heaving  hulls  and  burying  beaks. 

Still  on  the  farthest  line,  with  outpuffed  cheeks, 
'Twixt  dark  and  utter  dark,  the  great  wind  drew 
From  heaven  that  disenchanted  harmony 
To  join  earth's  laughter  in  the  midnight  blind  : 
Booming  a  distant  chorus  to  the  shrieks 

Preluding  him  :   then  he, 
His  mantle  streaming  thunderingly  behind, 
Across  the  yellow  realm  of  stiffened  Day, 
Shot  thro'  the  woodland  alleys  signals  three ; 


216   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

And  with  the  pressure  of  a  sea, 
Plunged  broad  upon  the  vale  that  under  lay. 

Night  on  the  rolling  foliage  fell : 

But  I,  who  love  old  hymning  night, 

And  know  the  Dryad  voices  well, 

Discerned  them  as  their  leaves  took  flight, 

Like  souls  to  wander  after  death  : 

Great  armies  in  imperial  dyes, 

And  mad  to  tread  the  air  and  rise, 

The  savage  freedom  of  the  skies 

To  taste  before  they  rot.     And  here, 

Like  frail  white-bodied  girls  in  fear, 

The  birches  swung  from  shrieks  to  sighs  ; 

The  aspens,  laughers  at  a  breath, 

In  showering  spray-falls  mixed  their  cries, 

Or  raked  a  savage  ocean-strand 

With  one  incessant  drowning  screech. 

Here  stood  a  solitary  beech, 

That  gave  its  gold  with  open  hand, 

And  all  its  branches,  toning  chill, 

Did  seem  to  shut  their  teeth  right  fast, 

To  shriek  more  mercilessly  shrill, 

And  match  the  fierceness  of  the  blast. 

But  heard  I  a  slow  swell  that  noised 

Of  far-off  ocean,  I  was  'ware 

Of  pines  upon  their  wide  roots  poised, 

Whom  never  madness  in  the  air 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  EARTH  IN  AUTUMN    217 

Can  draw  to  more  than  loftier  stress 

Of  mournfulness,  not  mournfulness 

For  melancholy,  but  Joy's  excess, 
That  singing,  on  the  lap  of  sorrow  faints  : 

And  Peace,  as  in  the  hearts  of  saints 

AVho  chant  unto  the  Lord  their  God  ; 
Deep  Peace  below  upon  the  muffled  sod, 
The  stillness  of  the  sea's  unswaying  floor. 

Could  I  be  sole  there  not  to  see 

The  life  within  the  life  awake  ; 

The  spirit  bursting  from  the  tree, 

And  rising  from  the  troubled  lake  ? 

Pour,  let  the  wines  of  Heaven  pour  ! 

The  Golden  Harp  is  struck  once  more, 

And  all  its  music  is  for  me  ! 

Pour,  let  the  wines  of  Heaven  pour ! 

And,  ho,  for  a  night  of  Pagan  glee  ! 


There  is  a  curtain  o'er  us. 
For  once,  good  souls,  we  '11  not  pretend 
To  be  aught  better  than  her  who  bore  us, 
And  is  our  only  visible  friend. 
Hark  to  her  laughter  !  who  laughs  like  this, 
Can  she  be  dead,  or  rooted  in  pain  ? 
She  has  been  slain  by  the  narrow  brain, 
But  for  us  who  love  her  she  lives  again. 

Can  she  die  ?     O,  take  her  kiss  ! 


218      POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

The  crimson-footed  nymph  is  panting  up  the  glade, 
With  the  wine- jar  at  her  arm-pit,  and  the  drunken 

ivy-braid 
Round  her  forehead,  breasts,  and  thighs  :   starts  a 

Satyr,  and  they  speed  : 
Hear  the  crushing  of  the  leaves  :  hear  the  crackling 

of  the  bough  ! 
And  the  whistling  of  the  bramble,  the  piping  of  the 

weed  ! 

But  the  bull-voiced  oak  is  battling  now  : 
The  storm  has  seized  him  half-asleep, 
And  round  him  the  wild  woodland  throngs 
To  hear  the  fury  of  his  songs, 
The  uproar  of  an  outraged  deep. 
He  wakes  to  find  a  wrestling  giant 
Trunk  to  trunk  and  limb  to  limb, 
And  on  his  rooted  force  reliant, 
He  laughs  and  grasps  the  broadened  giant, 
And  twist  and  roll  the  Anakim  ; 
And  multitudes  acclaiming  to  the  cloud, 
Cry  which  is  breaking,  which  is  bowed. 

Away,  for  the  cymbals  clash  aloft 

In  the  circles  of  pine,  on  the  moss-floor  soft. 

The  nymphs  of  the  woodland  are  gathering 

there. 
They  huddle  the  leaves,  and  trample,  and  toss  ; 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  EARTH  IN  AUTUMN    219 

They  swing  in  the  branches,  they  roll  in  the 
moss, 

They  blow  the  seed  on  the  air. 
Back  to  back  they  stand  and  blow 
The  winged  seed  on  the  cradling  air, 
A  fountain  of  leaves  over  bosom  and  back. 
The  pipe  of  the  Faun  comes  on  their  track, 
And  the  weltering  alleys  overflow 
With  musical  shrieks  and  wind-wedded  hair. 
The  riotous  companies  melt  to  a  pair. 

Bless  them,  mother  of  kindness  ! 

A  star  has  nodded  through 
The  depths  of  the  flying  blue. 
Time  only  to  plant  the  light 
Of  a  memory  in  the  blindness. 
But  time  to  show  me  the  sight 
Of  my  life  thro'  the  curtain  of  night ; 
Shining  a  moment,  and  mixed 
With  the  onward-hurrying  stream, 
Whose  pressure  is  darkness  to  me  ; 
Behind  the  curtain,  fixed, 
Beams  with  endless  beam 
That  star  on  the  changing  sea. 

Great  Mother  Nature  !  teach  me,  like  thee, 
To  kiss  the  season  and  shun  regrets. 
And  am  I  more  than  the  mother  who  bore, 
Mock  me  not  with  thy  harmony  I 


220     POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Teach  me  to  blot  regrets, 

Great  Mother  !  me  inspire 

With  faith  that  forward  sets 

But  feeds  the  living  fire. 

Faith  that  never  frets 

For  vagueness  in  the  form. 

In  life,  O  keep  me  warm  ! 

For,  what  is  human  grief  ? 

And  what  do  men  desire  ? 
Teach  me  to  feel  myself  the  tree, 

And  not  the  withered  leaf. 
Fixed  am  I  and  await  the  dark  to-be  ! 

And  O,  green  bounteous  Earth  ! 
Bacchante  Mother  !  stern  to  those 
Who  live  not  in  thy  heart  of  mirth  ; 
Death  shall  I  shrink  from,  loving  thee  ? 
Into  the  breast  that  gives  the  rose, 

Shall  I  with  shuddering  fall  ? 

Earth,  the  mother  of  all, 
Moves  on  her  stedfast  way, 
Gathering,  flinging,  sowing. 
Mortals,  we  live  in  her  day, 
She  in  her  children  is  growing. 

She  can  lead  us,  only  she, 

Unto  God's  footstool,  whither  she  reaches 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  EARTH  IN  AUTUMN    221 

Loved,  enjoyed,  her  gifts  must  be, 
Reverenced  the  truths  she  teaches, 
Ere  a  man  may  hope  that  he 
Ever  can  attain  the  glee 
Of  things  without  a  destiny  ! 

She  knows  not  loss  : 
She  feels  but  her  need, 
Who  the  winged  seed 
With  the  leaf  doth  toss. 

And  may  not  men  to  this  attain  ? 

That  the  joy  of  motion,  the  rapture  of  being, 

Shall  throw  strong  light  when  our  season  is 

fleeing, 
Nor  quicken  aged  blood  in  vain, 
At  the  gates  of  the  vault,  on  the  verge  of  the 

plain  ? 
Life  thoroughly  lived  is  a  fact  in  the  brain, 
While  eyes  are  left  for  seeing. 

Behold,  in  yon  stripped  Autumn,  shivering  grey, 
Earth  knows  no  desolation. 
She  smells  regeneration 
In  the  moist  breath  of  decay. 

Prophetic  of  the  coming  joy  and  strife, 

Like  the  wild  western  war-chief  sinking 
Calm  to  the  end  he  eyes  unblinking, 

Her  voice  is  jubilant  in  ebbing  life. 


222   POEMS  FROM  «  MODERN  LOVE  » 

He  for  his  happy  hunting-fields, 
Forgets  the  droning  chant,  and  yields 
His  numbered  breaths  to  exultation 
In  the  proud  anticipation  : 
Shouting  the  glories  of  his  nation, 
Shouting  the  grandeur  of  his  race, 
Shouting  his  own  great  deeds  of  daring  : 
And  when  at  last  death  grasps  his  face, 
And  stiffened  on  the  ground  in  peace 
He  lies  with  all  his  painted  terrors  glaring  ; 
Hushed  are  the  tribe  to  hear  a  threading  cry 

Not  from  the  dead  man  ; 

Not  from  the  standers-by  : 

The  spirit  of  the  red  man 
Is  welcomed  by  his  fathers  up  on  high. 


THE  DOE:  A  FRAGMENT     223 


THE  DOE  :  A  FRAGMENT 

(From  '  Wandering  Willie,'  a  poem  never  completed  and  for 
which  the  notes  and  some  stanzas  alone  exist.) 

And — '  Yonder  look  !  yoho  !  yoho  ! 
Nancy  is  off !  '  the  farmer  cried, 
Advancing  by  the  river  side, 
Red-kerchieft  and  brown-coated  ; — '  So, 
My  girl,  who  else  could  leap  like  that  ? 
So  neatly  !  like  a  lady  !     'Zounds  ! 
Look  at  her  how  she  leads  the  hounds  !  ' 
And  waving  his  dusty  beaver  hat, 
He  cheered  across  the  chase-filled  water, 
And  clapt  his  arm  about  his  daughter, 
And  gave  to  Joan  a  courteous  hug, 
And  kiss  that,  like  a  stubborn  plug 
From  generous  vats  in  vastness  rounded, 
The  inner  wealth  and  spirit  sounded  : 
Eagerly  pointing  South,  where,  lo, 
The  daintiest,  fleetest-footed  doe 
Led  o'er  the  fields  and  thro'  the  furze 
Beyond  :  her  lively  delicate  ears 


224   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Prickt  up  erect,  and  in  her  track 
A  dappled  lengthy-striding  pack. 

Scarce  had  they  cast  eyes  upon  her, 

When  every  heart  was  wagered  on  her, 

And  half  in  dread,  and  half  delight, 

They  watched  her  lovely  bounding  flight ; 

As  now  across  the  flashing  green, 

And  now  beneath  the  stately  trees, 

And  now  far  distant  in  the  dene, 

She  headed  on  with  graceful  ease  : 

Hanging  aloft  with  doubled  knees, 

At  times  athwart  some  hedge  or  gate  ; 

And  slackening  pace  by  slow  degrees, 

As  for  the  foremost  foe  to  wait. 

Renewing  her  outstripping  rate 

Whene'er  the  hot  pursuers  neared, 

By  garden  wall  and  paled  estate, 

Where  clambering  gazers  whooped  and  cheered. 

Here  winding  under  elm  and  oak, 

And  slanting  up  the  sunny  hill  : 

Splashing  the  water  here  like  smoke 

Among  the  mill-holms  round  the  mill. 

And — '  Let  her  go  ;  she  shows  her  game, 
My  Nancy  girl,  my  pet  and  treasure  !  ' 
The  farmer  sighed  :   his  eyes  with  pleasure 
Brimming  :    '  'Tis  my  daughter's  name, 
My  second  daughter  lying  yonder.' 


THE  DOE:    A  FRAGMENT  225 

And  Willie's  eye  in  search  did  wander, 
And  caught  at  once,  with  moist  regard, 
The  white  gleams  of  a  grey  churchyard. 
'  Three  weeks  before  my  girl  had  gone, 
And  while  upon  her  pillows  propped, 
She  lay  at  eve  ;   the  weakling  fawn — 
For  still  it  seems  a  fawn  just  dropt 
A  se'nnight — to  my  Nancy's  bed 
I  brought  to  make  my  girl  a  gift  : 
The  mothers  of  them  both  were  dead  : 
And  both  to  bless  it  was  my  drift, 
By  giving  each  a  friend  ;   not  thinking 
How  rapidly  my  girl  was  sinking. 
And  I  remember  how,  to  pat 
Its  neck,  she  stretched  her  hand  so  weak, 
And  its  cold  nose  against  her  cheek 
Pressed  fondly  :   and  I  fetched  the  mat 
To  make  it  up  a  couch  just  by  her, 
Where  in  the  lone  dark  hours  to  lie  : 
For  neither  dear  old  nurse  nor  I 
Would  any  single  wish  deny  her. 
And  there  unto  the  last  it  lay  ; 
And  in  the  pastures  cared  to  play 
Little  or  nothing  :   there  its  meals 
And  milk  I  brought  :   and  even  now 
The  creature  such  affection  feels 
For  that  old  room  that,  when  and  how, 
'Tis  strange  to  mark,  it  slinks  and  steals 


226      POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

To  get  there,  and  all  day  conceals. 

And  once  when  nurse  who,  since  that  time, 

Keeps  house  for  me,  was  very  sick, 

Waking  upon  the  midnight  chime, 

And  listening  to  the  stair-clock's  click, 

I  heard  a  rustling,  half  uncertain, 

Close  against  the  dark  bed-curtain  : 

And  while  I  thrust  my  leg  to  kick, 

And  feel  the  phantom  with  my  feet, 

A  loving  tongue  began  to  lick 

My  left  hand  lying  on  the  sheet ; 

And  warm  sweet  breath  upon  me  blew, 

And  that  'twas  Nancy  then  I  knew. 

So,  for  her  love,  I  had  good  cause 

To  have  the  creature  "  Nancy  "  christened.' 


He  paused,  and  in  the  moment's  pause, 
His  eyes  and  Willie's  strangely  glistened. 
Nearer  came  Joan,  and  Bessy  hung 
With  face  averted,  near  enough 
To  hear,  and  sob  unheard  ;   the  young 
And  careless  ones  had  scampered  off 
Meantime,  and  sought  the  loftiest  place 
To  beacon  the  approaching  chase. 

4  Daily  upon  the  meads  to  browse, 
Goes  Nancy  with  those  dairy  cows 


THE  DOE:    A  FRAGMENT  227 

You  see  behind  the  clematis  : 

And  such  a  favourite  she  is, 

That  when  fatigued,  and  helter  skelter, 

Among  them  from  her  foes  to  shelter, 

She  dashes  when  the  chase  is  over, 

They  '11  close  her  in  and  give  her  cover, 

And  bend  their  horns  against  the  hounds, 

And  low,  and  keep  them  out  of  bounds  ! 

From  the  house  dogs  she  dreads  no  harm, 

And  is  good  friends  with  all  the  farm, 

Man,  and  bird,  and  beast,  howbeit 

Their  natures  seem  so  opposite. 

And  she  is  known  for  many  a  mile, 

And  noted  for  her  splendid  style, 

For  her  clear  leap  and  quick  slight  hoof  ; 

Welcome  she  is  in  many  a  roof. 

And  if  I  say,  I  love  her,  man  ! 

I  say  but  little  :  her  fine  eyes  full 

Of  memories  of  my  girl,  at  Yule 

And  May-time,  make  her  dearer  than 

Dumb  brute  to  men  has  been,  I  think. 

So  dear  I  do  not  find  her  dumb. 

I  know  her  ways,  her  slightest  wink, 

So  well  ;   and  to  my  hand  she  '11  come, 

Sidelong,  for  food  or  a  caress, 

Just  like  a  loving  human  thing. 

Nor  can  I  help,  I  do  confess, 

Some  touch  of  human  sorrowing 


228   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  » 

To  think  there  may  be  such  a  doubt 

That  from  the  next  world  she  '11  be  shut  out, 

And  parted  from  me  !     And  well  I  mind 

How,  when  my  girl's  last  moments  came, 

Her  soft  eyes  very  soft  and  kind, 

She  joined  her  hands  and  prayed  the  same, 

That  she  "  might  meet  her  father,  mother, 

Sister  Bess,  and  each  dear  brother, 

And  with  them,  if  it  might  be,  one 

Who  was  her  last  companion." 

Meaning  the  fawn — the  doe  you  mark — 

For  my  bay  mare  was  then  a  foal, 

And  time  has  passed  since  then  : — but  hark  ! 

For  like  the  shrieking  of  a  soul 

Shut  in  a  tomb,  a  darkened  cry 

Of  inward-wailing  agony 

Surprised  them,  and  all  eyes  on  each 

Fixed  in  the  mute-appealing  speech 

Of  self-reproachful  apprehension  : 

Knowing  not  what  to  think  or  do  : 

But  Joan,  recovering  first,  broke  through 

The  instantaneous  suspension, 

And  knelt  upon  the  ground,  and  guessed 

The  bitterness  at  a  glance,  and  pressed 

Into  the  comfort  of  her  breast, 

The  deep-throed  quaking  shape  that  drooped 

In  misery's  wilful  aggravation, 


THE  DOE:    A  FRAGMENT  229 

Before  the  farmer  as  he  stooped, 
Touched  with  accusing  consternation  : 
Soothing  her  as  she  sobbed  aloud  : — 
'  Not  me  !  not  me  !     Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! 
Not  me  !     God  will  not  take  me  in  ! 
Nothing  can  wipe  away  my  sin  ! 
I  shall  not  see  her  :   you  will  go  ; 
You  and  all  that  she  loves  so  : 
Not  me  !  not  me  !     Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  ' 
Colourless,  her  long  black  hair, 
Like  seaweed  in  a  tempest  tossed 
Tangling  astray,  to  Joan's  care 
She  yielded  like  a  creature  lost : 
Yielded,  drooping  toward  the  ground, 
As  doth  a  shape  one  half-hour  drowned, 
And  heaved  from  sea  with  mast  and  spar, 
All  dark  of  its  immortal  star. 
And  on  that  tender  heart,  inured 
To  flatter  basest  grief,  and  fight 
Despair  upon  the  brink  of  night, 
She  suffered  herself  to  sink,  assured 
Of  refuge  ;   and  her  ear  inclined 
To  comfort ;   and  her  thoughts  resigned 
To  counsel ;   her  wild  hair  let  brush 
From  off  her  weeping  brows  ;   and  shook 
With  many  little  sobs  that  took 
Deeper-drawn  breaths,  till  into  sighs 
Long  sighs  they  sank  ;   and  to  the  '  hush  1  ' 


230   POEMS  FROM  '  MODERN  LOVE  ' 

Of  Joan's  gentle  chide,  she  sought 

Childlike  to  check  them  as  she  ought, 

Looking  up  at  her  infantwise. 

And  Willie,  gazing  on  them  both, 

Shivered  with  bliss  through  blood  and  brain, 

To  see  the  darling  of  his  troth 

Like  a  maternal  angel  strain 

The  sinful  and  the  sinless  child 

At  once  on  either  breast,  and  there 

In  peace  and  promise  reconciled 

Unite  them  :  nor  could  Nature's  care 

With  subtler  sweet  beneficence 

Have  fed  the  springs  of  penitence, 

Still  keeping  true,  though  harshly  tried, 

The  vital  prop  of  human  pride. 


SCATTERED   POEMS 


TO  ALEX.  SMITH,  THE  'GLASGOW  POET.' 

ON   HIS    SONNET   TO    '  FAME  ' 

Not  vainly  doth  the  earnest  voice  of  man 

Call  for  the  thing  that  is  his  pure  desire  ! 

Fame  is  the  birthright  of  the  living  lyre  ! 

To  noble  impulse  Nature  puts  no  ban. 

Nor  vainly  to  the  Sphynx  thy  voice  was  raised  ! 

Tho'  all  thy  great  emotions  like  a  sea, 

Against  her  stony  immortality, 

Shatter  themselves  unheeded  and  amazed. 

Time  moves  behind  her  in  a  blind  eclipse : 

Yet  if  in  her  cold  eyes  the  end  of  all 

Be  visible,  as  on  her  large  closed  lips 

Hangs  dumb  the  awful  riddle  of  the  earth  ; — 

She  sees,  and  she  might  speak,  since  that  wild  call, 

The  mighty  warning  of  a  Poet's  birth. 


234     '  SCATTERED  POEMS 


CHILLIANWALLAH 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

Where  our  brothers  fought  and  bled  ! 
O  thy  name  is  natural  music 

And  a  dirge  above  the  dead  ! 
Though  we  have  not  been  defeated, 

Though  we  can't  be  overcome, 
Still,  whene'er  thou  art  repeated, 

I  would  fain  that  grief  were  dumb. 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

'Tis  a  name  so  sad  and  strange, 
Like  a  breeze  through  midnight  harpstrings 

Ringing  many  a  mournful  change  ; 
But  the  wildness  and  the  sorrow 

Have  a  meaning  of  their  own — 
Oh,  whereof  no  glad  to-morrow 

Can  relieve  the  dismal  tone  ! 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

'Tis  a  village  dark  and  low, 
By  the  bloody  Jhelum  river, 

Bridged  by  the  foreboding  foe  ; 
And  across  the  wintry  water 

He  is  ready  to  retreat, 


CHILLIANWALLAH  235 

When  the  carnage  and  the  slaughter 
Shall  have  paid  for  his  defeat. 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

Tis  a  wild  and  dreary  plain, 
Strewn  with  plots  of  thickest  jungle, 

Matted  with  the  gory  stain. 
There  the  murder-mouthed  artillery, 

In  the  deadly  ambuscade, 
Wrought  the  thunder  of  its  treachery 

On  the  skeleton  brigade. 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

When  the  night  set  in  with  rain, 
Came  the  savage  plundering  devils 

To  their  work  among  the  slain  ; 
And  the  wounded  and  the  dying 

In  cold  blood  did  share  the  doom 
Of  their  comrades  round  them  lying, 

Stiff  in  the  dead  skyless  gloom. 

Chillianwallah,  Chillianwallah  ! 

Thou  wilt  be  a  doleful  chord, 
And  a  mystic  note  of  mourning 

That  will  need  no  chiming  word  ; 
And  that  heart  will  leap  with  anguish 

Who  may  understand  thee  best ; 
But  the  hopes  of  all  will  languish 

Till  thy  memory  is  at  rest. 


236  SCATTERED  POEMS 


INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY 

Now  'tis  Spring  on  wood  and  wold, 

Early  Spring  that  shivers  with  cold, 

But  gladdens,  and  gathers,  day  by  day, 

A  lovelier  hue,  a  warmer  ray, 

A  sweeter  song,  a  dearer  ditty  ; 

Ouzel  and  throstle,  new-mated  and  gay, 

Singing  their  bridals  on  every  spray — 

Oh,  hear  them,  deep  in  the  songless  City  ! 

Cast  off  the  yoke  of  toil  and  smoke, 

As  Spring  is  casting  winter's  grey, 

As  serpents  cast  their  skins  away  : 

And  come,  for  the  Country  awaits  thee  with  pity ; 

And  longs  to  bathe  thee  in  her  delight, 

And  take  a  new  joy  in  thy  kindling  sight ; 

And  I  no  less,  by  day  and  night, 

Long  for  thy  coming,  and  watch  for,  and  wait  thee, 

And  wonder  what  duties  can  thus  belate  thee. 

Dry-fruited  firs  are  dropping  their  cones, 
And  vista'd  avenues  of  pines 
Take  richer  green,  give  fresher  tones, 
As  morn  after  morn  the  glad  sun  shines. 

Primrose  tufts  peep  over  the  brooks, 
Fair  faces  amid  moist  decay  ! 


INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY      237 

The  rivulets  run  with  the  dead  leaves  at  play, 
The  leafless  elms  are  alive  with  the  rooks. 

Over  the  meadows  the  cowslips  are  springing, 
The  marshes  are  thick  with  king-cup  gold, 
Clear  is  the  cry  of  the  lambs  in  the  fold, 
The  skylark  is  singing,  and  singing,  and  singing. 

Soon  comes  the  cuckoo  when  April  is  fair, 
And  her  blue  eye  the  brighter  the  more  it  may  weep : 
The  frog  and  the  butterfly  wake  from  their  sleep, 
Each  to  its  element,  water  and  air. 

Mist  hangs  still  on  every  hill, 

And  curls  up  the  valleys  at  eve  ;  but  noon 

Is  fullest  of  Spring  ;   and  at  midnight  the  moon 

Gives  her  westering  throne  to  Orion's  bright  zone, 

As  he  slopes  o'er  the  darkened  world's  repose  ; 

And  a  lustre  in  eastern  Sirius  glows. 

Come,  in  the  season  of  opening  buds  ; 
Come,  and  molest  not  the  otter  that  whistles 
Unlit  by  the  moon,  'mid  the  wet  winter  bristles 
Of  willow,  half-drowned  in  the  fattening  floods. 
Let  him  catch  his  cold  fish  without  fear  of  a  gun, 
And  the  stars  shall  shield  him,  and  thou  wilt  shun  ! 
And  every  little  bird  under  the  sun 
Shall  know  that  the  bounty  of  Spring  doth  dwell 
In  the  winds  that  blow,  in  the  waters  that  run, 
And  in  the  breast  of  man  as  well. 


238  SCATTERED  POEMS 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR 

Now  the  frog,  all  lean  and  weak, 

Yawning  from  his  famished  sleep, 
Water  in  the  ditch  doth  seek, 

Fast  as  he  can  stretch  and  leap  : 
Marshy  king-cups  burning  near, 
Tell  him  'tis  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  ant  works  up  his  mound 

In  the  mouldered  piny  soil, 
And  above  the  busy  ground 

Takes  the  joy  of  earnest  toil : 

Dropping  pine-cones,  dry  and  sere, 
Warn  him  'tis  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  chrysalis  on  the  wall 

Cracks,  and  out  the  creature  springs, 
Raptures  in  his  body  small, 

Wonders  on  his  dusty  wings  : 

Bells  and  cups,  all  shining  clear, 
Show  him  'tis  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  brown  bee,  wild  and  wise, 

Hums  abroad,  and  roves  and  roams, 
Storing  in  his  wealthy  thighs 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR  239 

Treasure  for  the  golden  combs  : 
Dewy  buds  and  blossoms  dear 
Whisper  'tis  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  merry  maids  so  fair 

Weave  the  wreaths  and  choose  the  queen, 
Blooming  in  the  open  air, 

Like  fresh  flowers  upon  the  green  ; 
Spring,  in  every  thought  sincere, 
Thrills  them  with  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  lads,  all  quick  and  gay, 

Whistle  to  the  browsing  herds, 
Or  in  the  twilight  pastures  grey 

Learn  the  use  of  whispered  words  : 
First  a  blush,  and  then  a  tear, 
And  then  a  smile,  i'  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  the  May-fly  and  the  fish 

Play  again  from  noon  to  night ; 
Every  breeze  begets  a  wish, 

Every  motion  means  delight : 

Heaven  high  over  heath  and  mere, 
Crowns  with  blue  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

Now  all  Nature  is  alive, 

Bird  and  beetle,  man  and  mole ; 
Bee-like  goes  the  human  hive, 

Lark-like  sings  the  soaring  soul : 
Hearty  faith  and  honest  cheer 
Welcome  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 


240  SCATTERED  POEMS 


THE  SONG  OF  COURTESY 


When  Sir  Gawain  was  led  to  his  bridal-bed, 
By  Arthur's  knights  in  scorn  God-sped  : — 
How,  think  you,  he  felt  ? 

O  the  bride  within 
Was  yellow  and  dry  as  a  snake's  old  skin, 

Loathly  as  sin  ! 

Scarcely  faceable, 

Quite  unembraceable  ; 
With  a  hog's  bristle  on  a  hag's  chin  ! — 
Gentle  Gawain  felt  as  should  we, 
Little  of  Love's  soft  fire  knew  he  : 
But  he  was  the  Knight  of  Courtesy. 

ii 
When  that  evil  lady  he  lay  beside 
Bade  him  turn  to  greet  his  bride, 
WThat,  think  you,  he  did  ? 

O,  to  spare  her  pain, 
And  let  not  his  loathing  her  loathliness  vain 


THE  SONG  OF  COURTESY  241 

Mirror  too  plain, 

Sadly,  sighingly, 

Almost  dyingly, 
Turned  he  and  kissed  her  once  and  again 
Like  Sir  Gawain,  gentles,  should  we  ? 
Silent,  all !     But  for  pattern  agree 
There  's  none  like  the  Knight  of  Courtesy. 


m 

Sir  Gawain  sprang  up  amid  laces  and  curls  : 
Kisses  are  not  wasted  pearls  : — 
What  clung  in  his  arms  ? 

O,  a  maiden  flower, 
Burning  with  blushes  the  sweet  bride-bower, 

Beauty  her  dower  ! 

Breathing  perfumingly, 

Shall  I  live  bloomingly, 
Said  she,  by  day,  or  the  bridal  hour  ? 
Thereat  he  clasped  her,  and  whispered  he, 
Thine,  rare  bride,  the  choice  shall  be. 
Said  she,  Twice  blest  is  Courtesy  ! 


IV 

Of  gentle  Sir  Gawain  they  had  no  sport, 
When  it  was  morning  in  Arthur's  court ; 
What,  think  you,  they  cried  ? 
Now,  life  and  eyes  1 
Q 


242  SCATTERED  POEMS 

This  bride  is  the  very  Saint's  dream  of  a  prize, 

Fresh  from  the  skies  ! 

See  ye  not,  Courtesy 

Is  the  true  Alchemy, 
Turning  to  gold  all  it  touches  and  tries  ? 
Like  the  true  knight,  so  may  we 
Make  the  basest  that  there  be 
Beautiful  by  Courtesy  1 


THE  THREE  MAIDENS  243 


THE  THREE  MAIDENS 

There  were  three  maidens  met  on  the  highway  ; 

The  sun  was  down,  the  night  was  late  : 
And  two  sang  loud  with  the  birds  of  May, 

O  the  nightingale  is  merry  with  its  mate. 

Said  they  to  the  youngest,  Why  walk  you  there  so 
still  ? 

The  land  is  dark,  the  night  is  late  : 
O,  but  the  heart  in  my  side  is  ill, 

And  the  nightingale  will  languish  for  its  mate. 

Said  they  to  the  youngest,  Of  lovers  there  is  store  ; 

The  moon  mounts  up,  the  night  is  late  : 
O,  I  shall  look  on  man  no  more, 

And  the  nightingale  is  dumb  without  its  mate. 

Said  they  to  the  youngest,  Uncross  your  arms  and 
sing  : 

The  moon  mounts  high,  the  night  is  late  : 
O  my  dear  lover  can  hear  no  thing, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  only  to  its  mate. 


244  SCATTERED  POEMS 

They  slew  him  in  revenge,  and  his  true-love  was 
his  lure  : 

The  moon  is  pale,  the  night  is  late  : 
His  grave  is  shallow  on  the  moor  ; 

O  the  nightingale  is  dying  for  its  mate. 

His  blood  is  on  his  breast,  and  the  moss-roots  at 
his  hair  : 

The  moon  is  chill,  the  night  is  late  : 
But  I  will  lie  beside  him  there  : 

O  the  nightingale  is  dying  for  its  mate. 


THE  CROWN  OF  LOVE  243 


THE  CROWN  OF  LOVE 

O  might  I  load  my  arms  with  thee, 

Like  that  young  lover  of  Romance 

Who  loved  and  gained  so  gloriously 
The  fair  Princess  of  France  ! 

Because  he  dared  to  love  so  high, 

He,  bearing  her  dear  weight,  shall  spec. 

To  where  the  mountain  touched  on  sky  : 
So  the  proud  king  decreed. 

Unhalting  he  must  bear  her  on, 

Nor  pause  a  space  to  gather  breath . 

And  on  the  height  she  will  be  won  ; — 
And  she  was  won  in  death  ! 

Red  the  far  summit  flames  with  morn, 
While  in  the  plain  a  glistening  Court 

Surrounds  the  king  who  practised  scorn 
Through  such  a  mask  of  sport. 

She  leans  into  his  arms  ;  she  lets 

Her  lovely  shape  be  clasped  :   he  fares. 


246  SCATTERED  POEMS 

God  speed  him  whole  !    The  knights  make  bets 
The  ladies  lift  soft  prayers. 

O  have  you  seen  the  deer  at  chase  ? 

O  have  you  seen  the  wounded  kite  ? 
So  boundingly  he  runs  the  race, 

So  wavering  grows  his  flight. 

— My  lover  !  linger  here,  and  slake 

Thy  thirst,  or  me  thou  wilt  not  win. 

— See'st  thou  the  tumbled  heavens  ?  they  break  ! 
They  beckon  us  up  and  in. 

— Ah,  hero-love  !  unloose  thy  hold  : 
O  drop  me  like  a  cursed  thing. 

— See'st  thou  the  crowded  swards  of  gold  ? 
They  wave  to  us  Rose  and  Ring. 

— O  death-white  mouth  !     O  cast  me  down  ! 

Thou  diest  ?     Then  with  thee  I  die. 
— See'st  thou  the  angels  with  their  Crown  ? 

We  twain  have  reached  the  sky. 


TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA     247 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA 

i 
Now  farewell  to  you  !  you  are 
One  of  my  dearest,  whom  I  trust : 
Now  follow  you  the  Western  star, 
And  cast  the  old  world  off  as  dust. 

ii 
From  many  friends  adieu  !  adieu  ! 
The  quick  heart  of  the  world  therein. 
Much  that  we  hope  for  hangs  with  you  : 
We  lose  you,  but  we  lose  to  win. 

in 
The  beggar-king,  November,  frets  : 
His  tatters  rich  with  Indian  dyes 
Goes  hugging  :   we  our  season's  debts 
Pay  calmly,  of  the  Spring  forewise. 

rv 
We  send  our  worthiest ;   can  no  less, 
If  we  would  now  be  read  aright, — 
To  that  great  people  who  may  bless 
Or  curse  mankind  :  they  have  the  might. 


248  SCATTERED  POEMS 

v 

The  proudest  seasons  find  their  graves, 
And  we,  who  would  not  be  wooed,  must  court. 
We  have  let  the  blunderers  and  the  waves 
Divide  us,  and  the  devil  had  sport. 

VI 

The  blunderers  and  the  waves  no  more 
Shall  sever  kindred  sending  forth 
Their  worthiest  from  shore  to  shore 
For  welcome,  bent  to  prove  their  worth. 

VII 

Go  you  and  such  as  you  afloat, 

Our  lost  kinsfellowship  to  revive. 

The  battle  of  the  antidote 

Is  tough,  though  silent :  may  you  thrive  ! 

VIII 

I,  when  in  this  North  wind  I  see 
The  straining  red  woods  blown  awry, 
Feel  shuddering  like  the  winter  tree, 
All  vein  and  artery  on  cold  sky. 

IX 

The  leaf  that  clothed  me  is  torn  away  ; 
My  friend  is  as  a  flying  seed. 
Ay,  true  ;   to  bring  replenished  day 
Light  ebbs,  but  I  am  bare,  and  bleed. 


TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA     249 


What  husky  habitations  seem 
These  comfortable  sayings  !  they  fell, 
In  some  rich  year  become  a  dream  : — 
So  cries  my  heart,  the  infidel  !  .  .  . 

XI 

Oh  !  for  the  strenuous  mind  in  quest, 
Arabian  visions  could  not  vie 
With  those  broad  wonders  of  the  West, 
And  would  I  bid  you  stay  ?     Not  I ! 

XII 

The  strange  experimental  land 
Where  men  continually  dare  take 
Niagara  leaps  ; — unshattered  stand 
'Twixt  fall  and  fall ; — for  conscience'  sake, 

XIII 

Drive  onward  like  a  flood's  increase  ; — 
Fresh  rapids  and  abysms  engage  ; — 
(We  live — we  die)  scorn  fireside  peace, 
And,  as  a  garment,  put  on  rage, 

xiv 
Rather  than  bear  God's  reprimand, 
By  rearing  on  a  full  fat  soil 
Concrete  of  sin  and  sloth  ; — this  land, 
You  will  observe  it  coil  in  coil. 


250  SCATTERED    POEMS 

xv 

The  land  has  been  discover'd  long, 
The  people  we  have  yet  to  know  ; 
Themselves  they  know  not,  save  that  strong 
For  good  and  evil  still  they  grow. 

XVI 

Nor  know  they  us.     Yea,  well  enough 
In  that  inveterate  machine 
Through  which  we  speak  the  printed  stuff 
Daily,  with  voice  most  hugeous,  mien 

xvn 
Tremendous  : — as  a  lion's  show 
The  grand  menagerie  paintings  hide  : 
Hear  the  drum  beat,  the  trombones  blow  ! 
The  poor  old  Lion  lies  inside  1  .  .  . 

xvni 
It  is  not  England  that  they  hear, 
But  mighty  Mammon's  pipers,  trained 
To  trumpet  out  his  moods,  and  stir 
His  sluggish  soul :  her  voice  is  chained 

XIX 

Almost  her  spirit  seems  moribund  ! 
O  teach  them,  'tis  not  she  displays 
The  panic  of  a  purse  rotund, 
Eternal  dread  of  evil  days, — 


TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA     251 

xx 

That  haunting  spectre  of  success 

Which  shows  a  heart  sunk  low  in  the  girths  : 

Not  England  answers  nobleness, — 

1  Live  for  thyself  :  thou  art  not  earth's.' 

XXI 

Not  she,  when  struggling  manhood  tries 
For  freedom,  air,  a  hopefuller  fate, 
Points  out  the  planet,  Compromise, 
And  shakes  a  mild  reproving  pate  : 

XXII 

Says  never  :   '  I  am  well  at  ease, 
My  sneers  upon  the  weak  I  shed  : 
The  strong  have  my  cajoleries  : 
And  those  beneath  my  feet  I  tread.' 

XXIII 

Nay,  but  'tis  said  for  her,  great  Lord  ! 
The  misery  's  there  !     The  shameless  one 
Adjures  mankind  to  sheathe  the  sword, 
Herself  not  yielding  what  it  won  : — 

XXIV 

Her  sermon  at  cock-crow  doth  preach, 
On  sweet  Prosperity — or  greed. 
1  Lo  !  as  the  beasts  feed,  each  for  each, 
God's  blessings  let  us  take,  and  feed  !  ' 


252  SCATTERED  POEMS 

XXV 

Ungrateful  creatures  crave  a  part — 
She  tells  them  firmly  she  is  full ; 
Lest  sheared  sheep  hurt  her  tender  heart 
With  bleating,  stops  her  ears  with  wool  : — 


Seized  sometimes  by  prodigious  qualms 
(Nightmares  of  bankruptcy  and  death), — 
Showers  down  in  lumps  a  load  of  alms, 
Then  pants  as  one  who  has  lost  a  breath  ; 

XXVII 

Believes  high  heaven,  whence  favours  flow. 
Too  kind  to  ask  a  sacrifice 
For  what  it  specially  doth  bestow  : — 
Gives  she,  'tis  generous,  cheese  to  mice. 

XXVIII 

She  saw  the  young  Dominion  strip 
For  battle  with  a  grievous  wrong, 
And  curled  a  noble  Norman  lip, 
And  looked  with  half  an  eye  sidelong  ; 

XXIX 

And  in  stout  Saxon  wrote  her  sneers, 
Denounced  the  waste  of  blood  and  coin, 
Implored  the  combatants,  with  tears, 
Never  to  think  they  could  rejoin. 


TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA     253 

XXX 

Oh  !  was  it  England  that,  alas  ! 
Turned  sharp  the  victor  to  cajole  ? 
Behold  her  features  in  the  glass  : 
A  monstrous  semblance  mocks  her  soul  ! 

XXXI 

A  false  majority,  by  stealth, 
Have  got  her  fast,  and  sway  the  rod  : 
A  headless  tyrant  built  of  wealth, 
The  hypocrite,  the  belly-God. 

XXXII 

To  him  the  daily  hymns  they  raise  : 
His  tastes  are  sought :   his  will  is  done  : 
He  sniffs  the  putrid  steam  of  praise, 
Place  for  true  England  here  is  none  ! 

XXXIII 

But  can  a  distant  race  discern 
The  difference  'twixt  her  and  him  ? 
My  friend,  that  will  you  bid  them  learn. 
He  shames  and  binds  her,  head  and  limb. 

XXXIV 

Old  wood  has  blossoms  of  this  sort. 
Though  sound  at  core,  she  is  old  wood. 
If  freemen  hate  her,  one  retort 
She  has  ;   but  one  ! — '  You  are  my  blood.' 


254  SCATTERED  POEMS 

XXXV 

A  poet,  half  a  prophet,  rose 
In  recent  days,  and  called  for  power. 
I  love  him  ;   but  his  mountain  prose — 
His  Alp  and  valley  and  wild  flower — 

XXXVI 

Proclaimed  our  weakness,  not  its  source 
What  medicine  for  disease  had  he  ? 
Whom  summoned  for  a  show  of  force  ? 
Our  titular  aristocracy  ! 

xxxvn 
Why,  these  are  great  at  City  feasts ; 
From  City  riches  mainly  rise  : 
'Tis  well  to  hear  them,  when  the  beasts 
That  die  for  us  they  eulogize  ! 

XXXVIII 

But  these,  of  all  the  liveried  crew 
Obeisant  in  Mammon's  walk, 
Most  deferent  ply  the  facial  screw, 
The  spinal  bend,  submissive  talk. 

xxxix 

Small  fear  that  they  will  run  to  books 
(At  least  the  better  form  of  seed)  ! 
I,  too,  have  hoped  from  their  good  looks, 
And  fables  of  their  Northman  breed  ; — 


TO  A  FRIEND  VISITING  AMERICA     255 

XL 

Have  hoped  that  they  the  land  would  head 

In  acts  magnanimous  ;   but,  lo, 

When  fainting  heroes  beg  for  bread 

They  frown  :  where  they  are  driven  they  go. 

XLI 

Good  health,  my  friend  !  and  may  your  lot 
Be  cheerful  o'er  the  Western  rounds. 
This  butter-woman's  market-trot 
Of  verse  is  passing  market-bounds. 


Adieu  !  the  sun  sets  ;  he  is  gone. 
On  banks  of  fog  faint  lines  extend  : 
Adieu  !   bring  back  a  braver  dawn 
To  England,  and  to  me  my  friend. 

November  15tlt,  1867. 


256  SCATTERED  POEMS 


ON  THE  DANGER  OF  WAR 

Avert,  High  Wisdom,  never  vainly  wooed, 

This  threat  of  WTar,  that  shows  a  land  brain-sick  I 

When  nations  gain  the  pitch  where  rhetoric 

Seems  reason  they  are  ripe  for  cannon's  food. 

Dark  looms  the  issue  though  the  cause  be  good, 

But  with  the  doubt  'tis  our  old  devil's  trick. 

O  now  the  down-slope  of  the  lunatic 

Illumine  lest  we  redden  of  that  brood. 

For  not  since  man  in  his  first  view  of  thee 

Ascended  to  the  heavens  giving  sign 

Within  him  of  deep  sky  and  sounded  sea, 

Did  he  unforfeiting  thy  laws  transgress  ; 

In  peril  of  his  blood  his  ears  incline 

To  drums  whose  loudness  is  their  emptiness. 


TO  CARDINAL  MANNING  25, 


TO  CARDINAL  MANNING 

I,  wakeful  for  the  skylark  voice  in  men, 
Or  straining  for  the  angel  of  the  light, 
Rebuked  am  I  by  hungry  ear  and  sight, 
When  I  behold  one  lamp  that  through  our  fen 
Goes  hourly  where  most  noisome  ;   hear  again 
A  tongue  that  loathsomeness  will  not  affright 
From  speaking  to  the  soul  of  us  forthright 
What  things  our  craven  senses  keep  from  ken. 
This  is  the  doing  of  the  Christ ;   the  way 
He  went  on  earth  ;   the  service  above  guile 
To  prop  a  tyrant  creed  :   it  sings,  it  shines  ; 
Cries  to  the  Mammonites  :   Allay,  allay 
Such  misery  as  by  these  present  signs 
Brings  vengeance  down ;    nor  them  who  roust 
revile. 


258  SCATTERED  POEMS 


TO  CHILDREN  :    FOR  TYRANTS 


Strike  not  thy  dog  with  a  stick  I 

I  did  it  yesterday  : 
Not  to  undo  though  I  gained 
The  Paradise  :  heavy  it  rained 

On  Kobold's  flanks,  and  he  lay. 


Little  Bruno,  our  long- ear  pup, 

From  his  hunt  had  come  back  to  my  heel. 
I  heard  a  sharp  worrying  sound, 
And  Bruno  foamed  on  the  ground, 

With  Koby  as  making  a  meal. 

m 

I  did  what  I  could  not  undo 

Were  the  gates  of  the  Paradise  shut 
Behind  me  :   I  deemed  it  was  just. 
I  left  Koby  crouched  in  the  dust, 

Some  yards  from  the  woodman's  hut. 


TO  CHILDREN:    FOR  TYRANTS      259 

IV 

He  whimpered  his  welting,  and  I 

Scarce  thought  it  enough  for  him  :   so, 

By  degrees,  through  the  upper  box-grove, 

Within  me  an  old  story  hove, 

Of  a  man  and  a  dog  :   you  shall  know. 


The  dog  was  of  novel  breed, 

The  Shannon  retriever,  untried  : 

His  master,  an  old  Irish  lord, 

In  an  oaken  armchair  snored 
At  midnight,  whisky  beside. 

VI 

Perched  up  a  desolate  tower, 

Where  the  black  storm-wind  was  a  whip 
To  set  it  nigh  spinning,  these  two 
Were  alone,  like  the  last  of  a  crew, 

Outworn  in  a  wave-beaten  ship. 

VII 

The  dog  lifted  muzzle,  and  sniffed  ; 

He  quitted  his  couch  on  the  rug, 
Nose  to  floor,  nose  aloft ;   whined,  barked  ; 
And  finding  the  signals  unmarked, 

Caught  a  hand  in  a  death-grapple  tug. 


SCATTERED  POEMS 


VIII 


He  pulled  till  his  master  jumped 

For  fury  of  wrath,  and  laid  on 
With  the  length  of  a  tough  knotted  staff, 
Fit  to  drive  the  life  flying  like  chaff, 

And  leave  a  sheer  carcase  anon. 

IX 

That  done,  he  sat,  panted,  and  cursed 

The  vile  cross  of  this  brute  :   nevermore 

Would  he  house  it  to  rear  such  a  cur  ! 

The  dog  dragged  his  legs,  pained  to  stir, 

Eyed  his  master,  dropped,  barked  at  the  door. 


Then  his  master  raised  head  too,  and  sniffed 
It  struck  him  the  dog  had  a  sense 

That  honoured  both  dam  and  sire. 

You  have  guessed  how  the  tower  was  afire. 
The  Shannon  retriever  dates  thence. 

XI 

I  mused  :   saw  the  pup  ease  his  heart 
Of  his  instinct  for  chasing,  and  sink 

Overwrought  by  excitement  so  new  : 

A  scene  that  for  Koby  to  view, 

Was  the  seizure  of  nerves  in  a  link. 


TO  CHILDREN  :    FOR  TYRANTS       201 

XII 

And  part  sympathetic,  and  part 

Imitatively,  raged  my  poor  brute  ; 

And  I,  not  thinking  of  ill, 

Doing  eviller  :   nerves  are  still 

Our  savage  too  quick  at  the  root. 

XIII 

They  spring  us  :  I  proved  it,  albeit 

I  played  executioner  then 
For  discipline,  justice,  the  like. 
Yon  stick  I  had  handy  to  strike, 

Should  have  warned  of  the  tyrant  in  men. 

XIV 

You  read  in  your  History  books, 

How  the  Prince  in  his  youth  had  a  mind 
For  governing  gently  his  land. 
Ah,  the  use  of  that  weapon  at  hand, 

When  the  temper  is  other  than  kind  ! 

xv 

At  home  all  was  well ;   Koby's  ribs 

Not  so  sore  as  my  thoughts  :   if,  beguiled, 
He  forgives  me,  his  criminal  air 
Throws  a  shade  of  Llewellyn's  despair 

For  the  hound  slain  for  saving  his  child. 


262  SCATTERED  POEMS 


A  STAVE  OF  ROVING  TIM 

(Addressed  to  certain  friendly  Tramps) 


The  wind  is  East,  the  wind  is  West, 

Blows  in  and  out  of  haven  ; 
The  wind  that  blows  is  the  wind  that 's  best, 

And  croak,  my  jolly  raven  ! 
If  here  awhile  we  jigged  and  laughed, 

The  like  we  will  do  yonder  ; 
For  he  's  the  man  who  masters  a  craft, 
And  light  as  a  lord  can  wander. 

So,  foot  the  measure,  Roving  Tim, 

And  croak,  my  jolly  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 

ii 
You  live  in  rows  of  snug  abodes, 

With  gold,  maybe,  for  counting  ; 
And  mine  's  the  beck  of  the  rainy  roads 

Against  the  sun  amounting. 


A  STAVE  OF  ROVING  TIM  2C3 

I  take  the  day  as  it  behaves, 

Nor  shiver  when  'tis  airy  ; 
But  comes  a  breeze,  all  you  are  on  waves, 
Sick  chickens  o'  Mother  Carey  ! 

So,  now  for  next,  cries  Roving  Tim, 

And  croak,  my  jolly  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 

in 
Sweet  lass,  you  screw  a  lovely  leer, 

To  make  a  man  consider. 
If  you  were  up  with  the  auctioneer, 

I  'd  be  a  handsome  bidder. 
But  wedlock  clips  the  rover's  wing  ; 

She  tricks  him  fly  to  spider  ; 
And  when  we  get  to  fights  in  the  Ring, 
It 's  trumps  when  you  play  outsider. 

So,  wrench  and  split,  cries  Roving  Tim, 

And  croak,  my  jolly  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 

IV 

Along  my  winding  way  I  know 

A  shady  dell  that 's  winking ; 
The  very  corner  for  Self  and  Co. 

To  do  a  world  of  thinking. 


:64  SCATTERED  POEMS 

And  shall  I  this  ?  and  shall  I  that  ? 

Till  Nature  answers,  ne'ther  ! 
Strike  match  and  light  your  pipe  in  your  hat. 
Rejoicing  in  sound  shoe-leather  ! 

So  lead  along,  cries  Roving  Tim, 
And  croak,  my  jolly  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 


A  cunning  hand  '11  hand  you  bread, 
With  freedom  for  your  capers. 
I  'm  not  so  sure  of  a  cunning  head  ; 

It  steers  to  pits  or  vapours. 
But  as  for  Life,  we  '11  bear  in  sight 

The  lesson  Nature  teaches  ; 
Regard  it  in  a  sailoring  light, 

And  treat  it  like  thirsty  leeches. 

So,  fly  your  jib,  cries  Roving  Tim, 

And  top  your  boom,  old  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 


She  '11  take,  to  please  her  dame  and  dad, 
The  shopman  nicely  shaven. 

She  '11  learn  to  think  o'  the  marching  lad 
When  perchers  show  they  're  craven. 


A  STAVE  OF  ROVING  TIM  265 

You  say  the  shopman  piles  a  heap, 

While  I  perhaps  am  fasting  ; 
And  bless  your  wits,  it  haunts  him  in  sleep, 
His  tin-kettle  chance  of  lasting  ! 

So  hail  the  road,  cries  Roving  Tim, 

And  hail  the  rain,  old  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 

vn 

He  's  half  a  wife,  yon  pecker  bill ; 
A  book  and  likewise  preacher. 
With  any  soul,  in  a  game  of  skill, 

He  '11  prove  your  over-reacher. 
The  reason  is,  his  brains  are  bent 
On  doing  things  right  single. 
You  'd  wish  for  them  when  pitching  your  tent 
At  night  in  a  whirly  dingle  ! 

So,  off  we  go,  cries  Roving  Tim, 

And  on  we  go,  old  raven  1 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 

VIII 

Lord,  no,  man's  lot  is  not  for  bliss  ; 

To  call  it  woe  is  blindness  : 
It 's  here  a  kick,  and  it 's  there  a  kiss, 

And  here  and  there  a  kindness. 


266  SCATTERED  POEMS 

He  starts  a  hare  and  calls  her  joy  ; 
He  runs  her  down  to  sorrow .: 
The  dogs  within  him  bother  the  boy, 
But  'tis  a  new  day  to-morrow. 

So,  I  at  helm,  cries  Roving  Tim, 
And  you  at  bow,  old  raven  ! 
The  wind  according  to  its  whim 
Is  in  and  out  of  haven. 


ON  HEARING  THE  NEWS  FROM  VENICE  2C7 


ON  HEARING  THE  NEWS  FROM  VENICE 

(The  Death  of  Robert  Browning) 

Now  dumb  is  he  who  waked  the  world  to  speak, 

And  voiceless  hangs  the  world  beside  his  bier. 

Our  words  are  sobs,  our  cry  of  praise  a  tear  : 

We  are  the  smitten  mortal,  we  the  weak. 

We  see  a  spirit  on  Earth's  loftiest  peak 

Shine,  and  wing  hence  the  way  he  makes  more 

clear  : 
See  a  great  Tree  of  Life  that  never  sere 
Dropped  leaf  for  aught  that  age  or  storms  might 

wreak. 
Such  ending  is  not  Death  :   such  living  shows 
What  wide  illumination  brightness  sheds 
From  one  big  heart,  to  conquer  man's  old  foes  : 
The  coward,  and  the  tyrant,  and  the  force 
Of  all  those  weedy  monsters  raising  heads 
When  Song  is  murk  from  springs  of  turbid  source. 

December  13,  1889. 


268  SCATTERED  POEMS 


THE  RIDDLE  FOR  MEN 


This  Riddle  rede  or  die, 
Says  History  since  our  Flood, 
To  warn  her  sons  of  power  : — 

It  can  be  truth,  it  can  be  lie  ; 

Be  parasite  to  twist  awry  ; 

The  drouthy  vampire  for  your  blood  ; 

The  fountain  of  the  silver  flower  ; 

A  brand,  a  lure,  a  web,  a  crest ; 

Supple  of  wax  or  tempered  steel ; 

The  spur  to  honour,  snake  in  nest : 

'Tis  as  you  will  with  it  to  deal ; 
To  wear  upon  the  breast, 
Or  trample  under  heel. 

ii 

And  read  you  not  aright, 
Says  Nature,  still  in  red 
Shall  History's  tale  be  writ ! 
For  solely  thus  you  lead  to  light 
The  trailing  chapters  she  must  write, 


THE  RIDDLE  FOR  MEN  269 

And  pass  my  fiery  test  of  dead 
Or  living  through  the  furnace-pit : 
Dislinked  from  who  the  softer  hold 
In  grip  of  brute,  and  brute  remain  : 
Of  whom  the  woeful  tale  is  told, 
How  for  one  short  Sultanic  reign, 
Their  bodies  lapse  to  mould, 
Their  souls  behowl  the  plain. 


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